


It is Not Enough

by NamelessShe



Series: Not Enough AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Lavellan/Fenris - Freeform, Male Mahariel/Zevran - Freeform, Merrill/Sera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 100
Words: 202,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelessShe/pseuds/NamelessShe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas returns, but what they had is broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As the World Burns

He is not the man she wants to end up with, but he's the man she wakes up beside after the world ends. She barely even remembers how it happened, or even what happened. The night is a fog after the sky stopped burning. 

With his lips, he traces a path from the base of her spine to the base of her neck. 

"Vhenan," he whispers. 

She couldn't say how many times he's taken her, but she can feel him, ready again, impossibly hard after everything. The stump of her left arm is agony while her right arm is mottled with bruises from the fight. He takes his time, kissing each one.

They are not friends and they will never be again, but she aches to feel him. All of him. And he knows. 

"Fen'Harel," she says. She is still wet when he enters her---from before. She didn't think she would be, but her body offers little resistance. She arches back and he finds the rhythm she needs. He fucks like a desperate man, like a man slowly falling apart. 

"Solas," he says, "Please, vhenan, Solas." As if it will absolve him of his sins, as if she wants to, as if she would.

She lets him roll her onto her back and she lets him shudder around her, arms too tight. She should not love him. The battlefield is still slick with blood. The graves have not been dug. The bodies have not been buried. There is no one left but him. No one but his army and his People and his brave, new world with it's colorful sky and air that almost shimmers with magic. 

And she is alone. 

She holds him after they finish, his arms still too tight around her. He presses unfamiliar, Elvhen words to her cheek. He peppers the line of her jaw with I love yous and the curve of her brow with forgive mes. 

In another world, it would have been enough.


	2. In the After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gifts are not gifts.

When she throws the journal at him, he pushes her against the wall. He exhales against the soft of her throat. She counts eight breaths before he calms. 

"Oh, vhenan," he breathes, his thumbs tracing uneven circles on her skin. Then he brushes her hair back from her face.

It's the second time he tries to give her the damn thing. Varric's last novel is a collection of unfinished scenes with barely legible notes scratched into the margins. A happy ending redeems the villain. Just this once, everyone lives.

Would have, she corrects herself as Solas slides a hand up her thigh. But Varric doesn't have the chance to weave the pieces of the story together. Solas knows how much it hurts her to think about it. He knows and he uses it anyway because he can.

The library is a pretty bribe, and the murals infuriate her the most. He paints them all for her. When she destroys them, he starts again. It doesn't matter what he creates. It doesn't matter what faces he torments her with or what memories he drags back to the surface. She will not have them. Damn his paintings and his books, and damn him too.

Their battle is eternal. 

She loves to read. 

It is torture but she doesn't touch his books. She doesn't trail her fingers along the leather spines or turn the pages, obsessing over each word until the sun starts to rise and she has lost another night's sleep. Instead, she stares at the painted brush strokes of his sunsets and sunrises and wonders where he's hidden the rest of his paints.

He's starved for more than her anger, but she thinks that's all that's left of her. Like the spirits named for it, like Cole, compassion is corrupted into something dark and ugly. It hardens into a cold rage when she thinks she might relent, that she might look at him and smile the way she used to. There are too many hurts that can't be healed. Too many wrongs she can't right. When it bubbles to the surface, the color seeps out of the world. 

She can't be soft for him again.

He hitches her skirts over her hips and hooks a finger under the waistband of her smallclothes. He'll stop if she tells him to, but his touch is fire and his mouth, gods--- she doesn't know how to resist his mouth.

He nips the spot above her collar bone. It might finally be too much, she thinks. He'll spark her brittle edges and she'll ignite. There will be nothing left of her.

She wonders what he'll do if she burns his grand library down around them.


	3. When Truth is Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She reads the words of a dead woman.

The arrow strikes the ledge under the window. She plucks the note from it before Abelas finds her. He is breathless from running, and his hood has fallen back, his hair a wild tangle. 

She thinks he must have taken the stairs three at a time, and then she doesn't care. He is too late. She holds the note in her hand and can't remember how to breathe because the world is shrinking down to the narrow point at her fingertips.

The letter is barely chicken scratch, not entirely legible to those who don't know it, but she knows it. Even without the lewd drawings of stick figures, she knows. She remembers. She reads the words of a woman who was supposed to be dead. And she is no ghost.

Sera is alive and angry and not alone. One of her allies holds Kirkwall, calls himself the White Wolf, and he decimates Elvhen patrols that come too close to his borders. Entire patrols and just one man with a sword and Tevinter magic.

The White Wolf is not alone. Sera is not alone. Lavellan is not alone. 

Abelas snatches the letter before she finishes. She glimpses the name Mahariel, Commander of the Grey Wardens, a man the world believed was lost to the Deep Roads long before the Veil fell. Alive in Sera's letter. Alive and making Solas sweat.

"It is a lie to hurt you, "Abelas says, "It means nothing."

But she hears the hesitation in his voice. She sees a flicker of fear. The only lies are the ones coming from his mouth.

Sera has made it past their defenses. A single arrow. One of the people Solas didn't try to save. The woman who once cared more for childish pranks than political uprisings. The Red Jennies will paint this world with blood.

She laughs and Abelas stares at her as if she's finally lost her mind. And maybe it's true, maybe she has. Nothing about this is funny. 

The guards search the forest but they find no one. 

She is still laughing when Solas joins her. She grips the window sill until her nails bend back and her knuckles are white. She shakes and her stomach feels shredded. 

To his credit, he doesn't try to explain. He sighs and wraps an arm around her, tucking her head under his chin as he holds her much, much too tightly.


	4. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't want to think about the lies. Not yet.

She wakes to soft kisses on her eyelids. His knuckles skim the line of her throat, her shoulder. Lower.

"Will you join me today?" he asks. 

"No," she says. She doesn't open her eyes when she smiles. The moments between waking and dreaming put her in a pleasant, muddled haze. She is still angry, but she pretends she isn't. Wills it to be true for just a few more minutes, seconds. She can't face the lies yet.

"Please," he says. He traces the curve of her breast, his thumb brushes the nipple, circling lightly.

"Please," he says, kissing the hollow of her throat. 

He shifts his weight until he covers her, until he's between her thighs and the hard length of him is angled just right. One hand slides down, fingers hooking behind her knee as he urges her to wrap around him.

"Please," he says, his voice barely a whisper, barely a breath on her skin. He rolls his hips. 

Her breath rushes out in a hiss. The pleasant haze is fading, replaced by something else. He has already won and he knows it. 

When she opens her eyes, he is flushed, his eyes dark with want. She doesn't know why she touches his face.

"Where would we be going?" she asks. Away from Sera's messages, she thinks. Away from uncomfortable truths. 

But he doesn't answer and she forgets the question.


	5. So Many Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to one of Solas' new, old settlements.

He seals the eluvian behind them. 

She recognizes the ruins. She was here with Dorian, Iron Bull, and Cole before Solas took her arm. Before she realized who he was and what he meant to do.

It is different now. Light still filters through cracks in the ceiling, but the debris has been cleared away. The dead have been seen to, buried or burned, and new structures have been built. 

Solas' smile is wistful. He drapes an arm over her shoulder and watches the spirits mingle with his People, talking and working together. 

"Once repairs have been completed, you will understand," he says, "This is just a glimpse of what we once were, what we can be again." 

"I've seen what you were," she says, "I don't much care for it." The slavery, the wars, the power mad rulers. It was no different than her world. No matter what he believes, it was not better. 

He takes her hand, kisses each knuckle, and she wonders if he even heard her. 

This place has too many memories. 

_Boss, he's not who he said he was---vishante kaffas, Lavellan, open your eyes---he's not that kind of wolf---_

She shrugs off his arm. She can handle his library and his fortress and his army, but not this. Not them. Not him. Smiling, talking. It would almost be so easy to forget, because everything is so normal, but she can't. She keeps hearing Dorian's voice and Bull and Cole. 

Oh Cole. 

"Take me back," she says.

"Tomorrow," Solas says, "There is still much to do before---"

"Now," she says. 

"No," he says.

He says, "Tomorrow. Perhaps."

He says, "Abelas will send word when it is safe." 

When he looks at her, she stops breathing. She knows that face, that expression. He looked at her like that when the world ended. When the Veil burned and Dorian died and she couldn't stop screaming.

"What have you done?" she asks. His hands cup her face and he rests his forehead against hers. 

"She will not find you here," he says.


	6. Some Kind of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it feels like all they have is sex.

Their room is sparsely furnished with only an over stuffed leather chair, an ancient table with uneven legs and two rickety chairs to match, and a pallet on the floor, barely large enough for two. Some one was kind enough to light the fireplace. 

He catches her wrist when she slips her fingers under the waistband of his pants. He turns her, bends her over the back of the chair, and slides her leggings down over her hips. She tries to right herself, but he spreads her open and she can't think about anything but the feel of his tongue.

And then his fingers. Angled just right. Gods, it's too much, too fast. 

Bastard.

He doesn't draw this out. The position is awkward and she's unsteady, but he drags an orgasm out of her with a force that makes her vision go dark around the edges. Her voice catches in her throat. Her legs shake and she's glad for the chair. She doesn't think she could stay upright without it. 

He knows her body too well. 

He pauses to stand, to free himself, and then he fucks her against the chair. One hand presses her down while the other grips her hip. Hard enough to bruise, at the very edge of how hard she likes it, how rough, but she doesn't care. She's coming again and there's a strange rushing sound in her ears.

It shouldn't be this easy for him to make her come. He shouldn't know what she wants before she does. But he does. Always. 

He pulls her up, and he's still hard inside her, still moving too fast, and now he is a little too rough. She should stop him, but she doesn't. She reaches back, palms the back of his neck as he bites her ear. Hard.

Oh, Gods.

She scratches him hard enough to draw blood, and he groans. He spills inside her, his breath a hiss in her ear. She slumps over the back of the chair, his weight pressing her down. It's a long time before he stands up. She feels his heart racing through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You don't know what you do to me, vhenan," he says.

"I don't care," she says. But she does. They need to talk. 

"Ma sa'lath," he breathes. 

She turns to face him, kisses him to stop him from talking. His hands skim her sides. He drags her shirt up over her head, tosses it aside. 

She wishes she didn't love him.


	7. This Bitter Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wine tastes like dirt.

Elvhen wine is not as good as Tevinter, she decides. She drinks two bottles just to be sure, but the heated glare of the silent lady who catches her dulls the experience. Dorian, at the very least, regaled her with scathing commentary about fashion and magic and fools. This person rolls her disapproval into a tight ball and holds it inside her pinched face.

"If you're not going to join me, I have a few suggestions where you can go," Lavellan says. If she's going to self destruct she doesn't need this kind of audience. She rolls the empty bottle at her feet, "Since you're already up, how about another bottle?" 

When she laughs, the woman looks at her like she just pissed herself at a garden party.

Fine, then, she decides, and tries to stand, tries to push off with her missing hand. The world tilts sideways and she sits right back down, her back against a tree. When did that get here, anyway, she wonders. She doesn't remember much before she finished the first bottle. 

Why does her mouth taste like dirt?

She hears footsteps, and the silent woman turns. When she speaks, her voice is as harsh as Lavellan thought it would be. Her Elvhen sounds like sandpaper on wood.

The feet that appear beside her are unpleasantly familiar. She rolls the other empty bottle at him but it rolls around and away, missing completely. 

"You," she says, looking up slowly, "Aren't invited here."

She stops before she gets to his face, because she doesn't feel like seeing him today. She wonders what he did with his armor though. He is soft edges today. Well, not entirely soft. He is still sharp angles and hard planes under the wool of his sweater. She does like what's under that sweater. 

"Please don't steal wine," he says when he drags her to her feet, "If you want something, you have only to ask." 

"Then I want another bottle," she says.

"You've had too much already," he says.

"So I do have to steal it after all," she says, "Liar."

"Vhenan, please." When the Elvhen woman shifts her glare to him, his fingers dig into her upper arm. It should probably hurt, but she doesn't really feel much of anything. She's fuzzy and a little numb and it's stranger than it is nice. 

She stares at his hand as he steers her back toward the hallway and their room. She stumbles when he moves too fast. He catches her when she starts to fall. He always did have such beautiful hands.

"I just want to know one thing," she says, "How do you get wine to taste like dirt? If it's an old Elvhen trick, you should stop. It's terrible." She leans against him and waits for everything to stop tilting.

"You should have saved the Vints," she says, "They know how to make a good wine." But she means Dorian. He should have saved Dorian. He could have if he really wanted to. 

"Knew," she corrects, "Because they're all dead." Maybe not the elves, but she doesn't know how it works. It's your fault, she thinks, and my fault. Dorian had to die but that bitch of a woman gets to live and Solas gets to live and Lavellan gets to live. And how does any of it make sense?

"Unless you lied about them too," she says, about him, but she saw him die. She saw him and it isn't fair. She wishes.

She wishes she could take his place.


	8. Price of Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is one of his safe houses. She is not impressed.

When he leads her through the eluvian, he dons his armor and they do not return to his fortress.

"Where are we?" she asks. 

"Far to the north of Tevinter," he says, "This is a safe house. Of a sorts."

Of a sorts. She does not like the sound of that. The windows don't open and outside she sees only snow and distant mountains. Everything is magically sealed. It is as bad an idea as any he's had. 

"Really, Solas, a safe house? That's unnecessary," she says. Sera must still be troubling them, she thinks. She dares to hope. It is strange to think of anyone trying to reach her. She had gotten so used to being the last. 

He kisses her forehead.

"Yes. Really. You will be safe here," he says, "When I return---" 

So that's what this is. She can't be trusted in his precious new city because she made one of his precious elves mad. Poor thing. Robbed by a savage Dalish beast. The wine wasn't even good enough to justify the outrage.

"This is silly. I don't need to be kept safe," she says. Nor does she want to be. She kept herself safe for many years, mostly from him. Even after the loss of her arm, she found a way. She always found a way. 

And then the world ended and she forgot herself. She fell apart while he watched. 

"Sera isn't trying to hurt me," she says. 

"Are you so sure, vhenan?" he asks. She has never been more certain than she is right now. 

He leaves when she looks back out at the falling snow. Her only company is a spirit of Solitude that keeps to itself and another angry, ancient woman who won't speak anything but Elvhen. There are very few books she can read.

There is no wine.

He is gone for three weeks. She stares at the wall for the first one and starts chipping away at his seals for the second and third. She almost knows the counter spell by the time the eluvian activates and he comes sweeping in, his robes still wet with blood. She tries not to think about who it could belong to or what his return could mean. 

"Where would you have gone?" he asks, mystified. 

There is only snow as far as the eye can see.

She doesn't have an answer.


	9. If It Could Be Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments she is almost happy.

He sinks into the bath with a heavy sigh. His eyes close and it strikes her that he looks ten years younger.

"Won't you join me?" he asks, his voice weary. 

His eyes crack open, his head lolling to the side---he seems almost boneless. Somehow, the sight of him hurts. This should be who his is, not the other man. Not Fen'Harel. 

When she leans against the side, she dips her hand under the surface. She runs her fingers through the water, a fraction from his skin---following a path up his leg. The water is almost too hot. 

"There is plenty of room," he says, "I have missed you." Your own fault, she thinks, and she is struck by a wave of bitterness. He cares too much about everything else to hear her. 

He cups her face between his palms and kisses the corners of her mouth. The water drips down his arms, drawing her gaze. The muscles tense, her only warning before he drags her in. Water surges over the edge and onto the floor. It soaks his night robe.

She shifts until she's resting with her back against his chest. She tries to ignore the hand that snakes under her skirt and up the inside of her thigh. He draws unrecognizable shapes with his fingertips. Not quite soothing.

It isn't terribly pleasant to sit in a bathtub fully clothed, but there isn't anything she can do about it now.

"You're an ass," she says.

"I am," he agrees. He rests his other hand on her stomach and sighs.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"Hmm?'

The hand on her thigh stills.

"You're quiet," she says.

"Just thinking repairs. Damage to east wall. Some cracks, mortar. Leaking. Must assign new patrol routes. Rat traps again. Last three chapters of Genitivi cross with Spirit." His voice trails off.

"Yes, those are words," she says.

He is too quiet. When she shifts to look at him, his eyes are shut and his jaw has gone slack. There's an odd, faint whistling sound every time he exhales. 

He doesn't look like a destroyer of worlds. Just an ordinary man, exhausted beyond his reserves. She doesn't want to feel sympathy, but she does. She remembers what it was like to spread herself too thin and all for nothing. And then she is angry with herself again.

She grips the side of the bathtub, starts to push herself to her feet. 

He jolts, eyes opening when he feels her move. He starts to sit up, but she's still in his way. He stops and looks at her, cloudy from sleep, his expression impossibly soft. He yawns and she stands. 

"I wasn't sleeping," he insists. She could almost laugh at him. 

The water sloshes as she steps out, her skirts clinging to her. The floor is a mess, but there is nothing she can do about that. She strips out of her wet clothes and leaves them in a pile. He has forgotten towels again, so she just stands there for a moment, dripping. 

When she looks at him, his head is cushioned on his arms and he's leaning against the side of the tub, eyes shut.

"Solas," she says, "You can't sleep here."

She doesn't mean to touch his shoulder, but she does. His eyelids flutter and he makes a sweet sound, not quite a sigh but not a hum either. He is beautiful and ordinary and very much the man fell in love with. 

She is so stupid. Weak.

"Solas," she tries again. 

"Vhenan?" He blinks at her and looks confused, as if he doesn't understand why she's suddenly naked or how she got out of the tub so quickly. But the sight keeps him from shutting his eyes again. His breath catches and he reaches for her. He yawns but stands.

"You can't sleep in the bath," she says, "Go to bed." 

She takes his hand when he starts to lose his balance. She steadies him. She doesn't even think about how much simpler it might be to let him fall until after he's leaning on her. They are both dripping water everywhere and shivering. The little cleft in his chin is suddenly mesmerizing. 

"What would I do without you?" he asks. 

He'll find out soon enough. And he'll be fine, she thinks.


	10. Not So Slowly Splintering

"Venavis!"

The guard blocks her path. She hears the rise and fall of hammers on nails. The workers are in a hurry to complete the repairs and she can understand why. The cracks Solas mentioned are not cracks. They are small gaps between the stones, radiating out from a very large, very noticable hole in the wall. It's roughly the size of a bronto. 

The edges are scorched black and the mortar looks brittle.

She wonders how that happened and levels a glare at the guard. 

"What?" she asks. 

He doesn't look at her. He looks past her, his face expressionless. He repeats the command and continues on in a rapid tumble of words she doesn't really follow. His face twists with distaste when she tells him that.

"You are not permitted here until repairs are complete," he says, his voice gruff. Of course she isn't. Because why would she be?

"And how long will that take?" she asks. She is not terribly interested in visiting the east wing, but the damage to the wall is terribly interesting. It is not so high up she would hurt herself if she just happened to step off the edge. 

"It will be finished when it is finished," he says, simply, and then gestures for her to turn back.

Well then.

The wood they're covering it with is probably only temporary. She suspects it will not take very long to cut and fit new stone. With magic, she suspects it will be done by the end of the day. And that is a shame.

If it is Sera's handiwork, she hopes she'll try again. When Lavellan isn't sequestered away in some wretched hovel in the north.

She regrets this missed opportunity.

She regrets a lot of things lately.

She chooses a spot several feet away from Sir Get-Away-from-the-Wall and sits. She leans against the stone and stares at him and wonders how long it'll take before someone comes to escort her away. She wonders if it will be Abelas this time. Perhaps Solas will come himself.

She decides she doesn't really care. She sees flaws in her pretty prison, possibilities and weaknesses. She almost feels like herself again.

It is only a few minutes before Solas appears.

He greets the guard before he greets her. A telling truth, she thinks. He strolls with an air of quiet patience, as if he just happened by and has nothing pressing to attend. She takes his hand when he offers it and lets him pull her to her feet.

"I think your definition of cracks needs to be adjusted," she says, "That is a giant hole in the wall."

"Yes, well. We were fortunate," he says, "No one was hurt. Walk with me?" The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He offers an arm, his elbow bent.

How can she refuse?

She takes his arm and lets him lead her away from the guard and the damaged wall and the cool rush of air that beckons her. When he opens the door, she realizes he is steering her back to the safer parts of the fortress. Their rooms, specifically. The library. 

"You seem to be in good spirits today," he says.

"Perhaps, I am," she says, granting him one of her rare smiles. It is good he can't read her thoughts. 

"Then I am glad," he continues. His gaze keeps shifting sideways. He looks at her face when he doesn't think she's watching. She feels the tension in his arm, the muscle much too firm under her fingers. 

"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asks.

He waits until they're alone in the corridor. 

"I have behaved---poorly," he says, "I have not treated you as I should. I am sorry. Can you forgive me?" 

It splinters her calm. Her breath rushes out and she can't disguise it. She did not expect an apology, doesn't want it. They are both well beyond the point it would make a difference.

His expresion twists. She sees regret. Guilt. 

Frustration.

"Yes," she says, "You are forgiven." You are not, she thinks, and then realizes he can see it on her face. He stares at her as he pulls away.

"You don't have to lie to me. I understand," he says, gaze shifting down, shoulders hunching.

She can't help it. She reaches for him, cups his cheek with her palm, and when she angles her face up, he leans down to meet her. The kiss is gentle. It is soft. It is an echo of what they used to be. 

She presses against him, her lips parting, her breath ragged. She would have him right now, in the empty corridor, even with the risk of being discovered. Let his People die of the shock. Let them stare as the savage debases their savior.

He looks at her with wounded eyes.

"In time, perhaps? Do you think you might be able to, someday?" he asks, his voice tense---as if he's afraid to ask, afraid to hear her answer. The emotion on his face is raw. 

She laughs and his breath hitches.

It is wrong. She is risking everything but she doesn't care. She slides her hand down his pants and grips the slowly hardening length, delighting when his eyes shut and he shudders. He leans into her touch, crowding her back against the wall.

"Never," she says, "I will never forgive you."

She's still laughing then when he does take her. When he turns her, shoves her against the wall, his fingers fumbling to get her pants down and her smalls out of the way. The frenzied pace is bruising, but she doesn't care. 

She can't remember the last time it felt this good.


	11. Closer to Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is trying.

He paints over his murals. He replaces old memories with forests and night skies. He replaces battles and lost friends with halla herds and aravels. 

He gives her campfires and unfamiliar faces with intricate vallaslin even though she knows he hates the sight of it. He paints her Gods and her stories. He paints the Dalish. 

It is beautiful.

It is thoughtful.

It is a grief she can bear. Not Dorian or Cassandra or the others. Not shattered Cole. 

He does not ask what she thinks of it. He retreats to his war room with Abelas and she does not see him for weeks. He has gone through the eluvian, she learns, and when he emerges, finally, he's covered in dust and grime and cobwebs instead of blood.

He doesn't bother to change. He seeks her out in the library, where she is deciding not to paint over his new paintings. 

She doesn't know what to think when he shows her the artifact inscribed with not only June's symbols but Ghilan'nain's as well. It looks like a very small circlet. It is vaguely dwarven. It practically hums with old magic.

She is afraid to ask what it is.

"A gift," he says, "It should work now that the Veil is gone, but it will take time. I wish I remembered it sooner."

"What does it do?" she asks.

He eases it over the stump of her arm. The band fits around her upper arm, loosely at first, but after a moment, she feels it adjust. It shifts until it is snug but not uncomfortable. 

It is a strange feeling. Magic settles in her skin, her bones, spreading warmth. It itches. It makes the ghost of her limb throb and ache.

She does not know why she allows it.

"What does it do?" she repeats.

"Watch," he says. For a moment, he looks like an eager child. He forgets himself and grins.

And then, she has an arm made of green light. She startles. She knocks over her books before she realizes it is solid. 

"It is a prosthetic at first, " he says, "Though I am uncertain why it is green. It should be very pale, almost silver. Perhaps the residual energy from the anchor---" His voice trails off, his gaze turning inward. He taps his fingers on the table.

She stares at it and she's cold. Her chest hurts and she can't breathe and this thing is glowing. Her instinct is to rip it off, to throw it as far as she can, and never look at it again. She hasn't worn a prosthetic arm since the war. Since Dagna. Since it was broken in battle. She doesn't know how to feel about this thing, this shimmering, perfect replica of an arm. She doesn't know why she doesn't strip it off.

This thing is not a prosthetic. It is light. It is magic.

It is strange.

She has a thousand questions, but she can't ask any of them. She can't speak. Her mouth is dry and her tongue is too heavy. He can not believe this makes things better. He can't. And yet, she feels something. It is small and insignificant, but it is there. A soft thought. 

Not hope. Not forgiveness. Never forgiveness. 

Solas leaves while she's still looking at it. She is trying to make the fingers work when she realizes he never finished explaining what it was.

It's a prosthetic at first, he said. _At first._

She wonders what he meant to say after. What does it become?


	12. It Is Unsettling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is lying to her, she can feel it.

She has been up half the night and her shoulder is raw. The prosthetic is light enough but learning to write again when she can't feel the quill or the paper is a strain. By morning, she is exhausted, but the smell of breakfast makes it impossible to go back to sleep.

And Solas is reading a book and humming.

Humming.

She slips on her robe and ties it shut using the prosthetic fingers, clumsily. But it is still a victory.

There is Dalish flat bread on the table and a jar of blackberry jam that looks and smells suspiciously similar to Keeper Deshanna's recipe. There is a spiced red leaf tea she is particularly fond of and someone has attempted to make Tan Dil Mathdea. She smells it before she lifts the lid. She sits adjacent to Solas at the end of the table and wonders what is going on.

She stares at him, but he does not look up. He marks his page and closes his book. He busies himself by opening the jar.

"What is this?" she asks.

"Breakfast," he says.

He spreads blackberry jam on crisp Dalish flat bread and pours red tea into his cup like it is normal. But he doesn't drink tea or eat Dalish food and his People certainly don't know how to make Tan Dil Mathdea. It isn't fancy enough for a refined Elvhen palate.

Nothing about this is normal.

"This is not breakfast," she says, "What are you doing?"

"Eating," he says as he takes a bite of the flat bread, jam sneaking out the corner of her mouth. He catches it with his thumb, shoves it back into his mouth. When he takes a sip of the tea, he can not hide his disgust. He tries. He does. But in the end, it is a battle his mouth can not win.

There is nug in the Tan Dil Mathdea and it is very strange. Nug and bear and goat. It is an unusual combination, and when she tastes it, she tastes what else is wrong. The cook is not Dalish. They have used too much of too many spices. It is not inedible, but it is more like one of Iron Bull's stews than a Dalish breakfast.

Someone has gone to a lot of trouble on her behalf.

She is suspicious.

"Solas, please," she says, "What is all this?"

"It is just breakfast, vhenan," he says, "Are you not hungry?" His smile is radiant and warm and she is not comforted.

"I am hungry," she admits. And he is lying. This is more than just breakfast. He is far too pleased with himself.

He moves the flat bread a little closer to her and angles the butter knife so she can reach it. Then, he leans over and kisses her on the cheek. He's quick and his lips are soft and it doesn't last more than a second before he pulls away. He sits back in his chair and takes another bite of flat bread, returning his attention to his book. It was all so quick she could almost convince herself it didn't happen at all.

"I hope you like it," he says, "Dalish recipes are much more difficult to find than I anticipated."

"We didn't write them down, usually," she says, her voice trailing off. What even is all this?

The bread is perfect and the jam is close enough to Deshanna's that she doesn't mind the differences. The tea, though, it is heaven. She sips slowly, wanting it to last.

"The Tan Dil is over seasoned, but it isn't bad. Why the sudden interest in Dalish breakfasts?" she asks. There is a reason. She can't begin to guess what it is, but there must be.

She doesn't really want to know.

"It was an experience I wanted to have," he says, "I was curious. Is that not enough of a reason?"

"You never do something just for curiosity's sake."

"Yes, well," he says, "I do now." He gives her that smile again and his face lights up.

She can not shake her feeling of unease.


	13. She is Curious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is not above snooping.

She nips the pulse point in his throat and he shivers. His eyes shut. He sighs.

"This is not a good time," he breathes. 

She knows. She doesn't care. 

"Do you want me to stop?" she asks. She kisses a trail from his jaw to his collarbone. 

"No," he says, his voice barely a whisper. His muscles are so tense beneath her fingers. He's like a bowstring again, stretched too tight, ready to snap. Each breath he takes seems to fight him. She can hear it, feel it.

"Good," she says. 

His notes are written in Elvhen. He knows she can't read most of it, and so he doesn't bother to hide anything. Except for the map. He slipped it under the pile when she interrupted him. He was not so quick she didn't notice. Or perhaps she was just lucky.

She sees it again when she shoves the contents of his desk onto the floor. A map of the forest, she realizes. For just a second, she glimpses the black lines and circles marking significant points. 

Then she kisses him. He is searching for something, she thinks, or someone.

Most likely someone. 

They have not caught Sera yet. 

If she read it correctly, there is a stretch of land they haven't searched yet, to the west. If Sera's people have a camp, it could be there. If they are even still here. 

She dares to hope. 

She pushes him down, his back flat against the desk while she climbs on top of him. His hands slide up her hips. She feels him harden beneath her. She feels her body's response, the rush of heat.

This is not a good idea. 

He looks up at her when she touches his lips. There is something about them, always so distracting---he catches her hand and kisses her fingertips. When he lets go, he leans up, angling for her mouth. He gets a hand under her shirt and his touch is like fire. 

Her breath rushes out in a hiss and he---

The door slams. Loud enough to startle her. Solas grips her when she pitches backwards. He tries to hold her tight against him, seeking that last bit of friction before they have to acknowledge the intruder. But the moment is already gone.

"We can not delay this meeting," Abelas says, "Again." His arms are full of reports and he looks pointedly at the mess of books and papers scattered across the floor. He disapproves of this. Mightily. 

"You're right, Abelas, I am sorry. Please give us a moment," Solas says, but she is already climbing off him. 

"No need," she says. She avoids his hand when he reaches for her. Abelas steps aside to let her pass.

"Wait," Solas says, his expression is pained, "Ellana."

But she doesn't stop. Let him think she is angry for the interruption, or embarrassed. She doubts he would appreciate the truth.


	14. She is the Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, he always knows.

He comes to bed much later than usual. She wakes when she feels the mattress dip, the blankets lift, and cool air on her bare skin. When she opens her eyes, he is crawling toward her, pausing every few inches to press his lips to her.

His fingers delve between her legs, teasing her, stroking her until she's arching off the bed, her fingers clutching the sheets. Heat coils in her belly. 

"Where were we?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"Remind me," she says. 

She already sounds half gone. Maybe more than half. She is breathy and when he kisses the valley between her breasts, she whimpers. What has gotten into her?

He latches onto her nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the tip. She squirms and then he stops, he looks down at her, gaze unreadable. There is no warning. He rolls them. She's suddenly perched on top and he's trapped under her. 

"This looks about right," he says. 

"Does it?" she asks. She rocks against him, desperate for more friction.

He slides the tie off her braid and tosses it. He frees the strands of her hair, fingers combing through, gentle but insistent. He tugs her down.

"Most certainly," he says. He catches her lower lip between his teeth. He sucks it into his mouth before he lets it go. He kisses her. Dips his tongue into her mouth.

She shudders. 

"I like seeing you like this," he says.

"Do you?" she asks, tries to sit back up but his arms lock tight around her.

"I like making love to you like this," he says. She feels a pang at that. He thinks of this as making love. But it isn't. They are never---it is always just fucking. It is always---the thought breaks off as he moves, lifts her, angles himself and then---

And then.

He pulls her hips down, seats himself fully inside her, and then stops. They are joined and there is so much of him and she feels like she's too full. She needs to move, but she can't. 

"Do you love me?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. She wishes it was a lie, but it isn't and he believes her. He relaxes his hold and she rocks against him. Just for a moment. Just once.

"Say it," he says, "Please." His fingers dig into her hips, holding her still again. Gods, he will drive her mad.

"I love you," she says. He twitches, starts to shift, but stops himself.

"Not like that," he says, "I need to hear it. Ar lath ma, vhenan." There is something written on his face, in his eyes. She can't read it and then he moves too hard, too sudden. She lurches forward. Only the grip of his hands on her hips stops her from falling. 

There is no sense to this rhythm. He is chaotic, his motions jerky, uneven. Unpredictable.

"Please," he says. 

He knows, she realizes, he saw the map on the floor and put it together. Of course he would. He was ancient when Orlais was in it's infancy, long before she was born, long before her Clan was formed. Before everything she knows.

And he has always been so terribly clever. 

"Please," he says again.

It's the please that gets her. Every time. Please. As if he means it. As if hers is the only power. She is the goddess and he is but a poor pilgrim, come to worship at her shrine. He knows she can't deny him. For she is no goddess. She is a fool. 

"Ar lath ma," she says and he rolls them again. She is under him and he is kissing her throat. He snaps his hips and it feels too good. 

She doesn't know what she's doing.


	15. This Fractured Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not a good dream.

She is dreaming again. The Fortress is almost the same, but it is empty. It is dark. It is silent. She can't wake up but she wishes she would.

She is not alone. 

A spirit of Apathy flickers, first to Rage and then Despair. Compassion, she realizes. And she feels sick. This is what happened when the Veil fell. This is what they became. 

This is not the first time she meets a spirit broken like this, and she doubts it will be the last. 

"Cole?" she asks. She hopes not. 

As Apathy, it doesn't acknowledge her. But as Rage, it snaps and burns. As Despair, it weeps.

"We are Failure," it says, in a voice that is barely a voice. It is the rasp of air through a ruined mouth. It is the last, ragged breath before death. 

Rage's eyes are glassy and black, its gaze turned inward, never truly seeing. Despair's are a muddy blue, it's gaze fixed outward, forever seeing too much. But Apathy is empty. The sockets are hollowed out, jagged and rough. It is like a dead thing.

For a moment, the fractured spirit almost takes the right shape. She can almost see the young man she remembers.

"We are Failure," it repeats, "We can not help you."

"Will not," Rage says. It screams at her. 

"Can not," Despair insists. 

"Then what do you want?" she asks. She doesn't know how she finds her voice. 

"Nothing," it says. And it says nothing more. 

It moves down the hall, stopping only when it reaches the stairs that lead to the dungeon and the wine cellar. It descends. It doesn't wait for her to follow. She doesn't know if she even wants to. 

So she doesn't.

The Fade is still very strange. 

She is jolted out of sleep. The stump of her arm sends shooting pains up her shoulder. The prosthetic is intangible for a terrible moment and then its solid again. She feels like it is burning from the inside out. 

When she tries to sit up, she can't. Her stomach lurches and her head spins. She ends up on her stomach, half off the edge of the bed, trying very hard not to vomit. 

"This will pass, breathe," Solas says. He rubs slow circles across her back. He pulls her onto her side, away from the edge. He holds her until the worst of the pain subsides, whispers Elvhen words of comfort.

When the pain dulls to an ache, she can breathe, but only just. Only barely. Her arm is an inch longer than it was. She isn't imagining it. There is new flesh jutting out and she thinks she's going to die. 

She holds her arm away from her body. It's so sore, she can't stand even the touch of her own skin. She can't be awake. She can't. 

"Ir abelas, ma sa'lath," he says, "There is nothing I can do to stop the pain. It must run it's course."

He kisses the back of her neck. 

"The next time will be easier," he says, "It can't be helped, I'm afraid." He smooths a lock of hair back behind her ear.

"What did you say?" she asks. When he throws back the blankets, she feels the chill. 

"Would you like some water?" he asks. 

When she shakes her head, he kisses the tip of her nose, careful not to jar her arm. His eyes are clear and blue and she doesn't know why she can't stop thinking of Despair and Rage. Of Apathy with its hollowed out, empty sockets. 

_We are failure,_ it had said.

She doesn't remember the color of Cole's eyes.


	16. Thanks to the Last Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn't expect to find it.

A little fool, she thinks, that's what I am.

The guards stop her at the front gate, swords crossed at her throat, blades gleaming in the fading sunlight. She knows they will stop her, but she has to try. She thinks, maybe they won't. Maybe. But they do, and she is furious.

"I'm not a prisoner," she says, "Why won't you let me pass?" She knows the answer. He has lied again. Because of course he has. Because she was stupid to think otherwise.

Their answer is a stream of words too quick for her to follow. They gesture for her to turn back, run inside like a good little _thing._

They're laughing at her. The Dread Wolf's doll thinks it's a person. It thinks it can go where it pleases and do as it will. How silly. 

But she is not his Doll, no matter what they think. She is not a child. She will not be kept here, waiting, until it suits him otherwise.

She retreats to the wine cellar to steal more wine, to drink herself into a stupor, and then maybe set something he loves on fire. She narrows it down to the exquisite tapestry of Mythal in Arlathan that hangs in the main hall or his collection of ancient Elvhen spell books, irreplaceable and priceless. 

Or perhaps, she doesn't have to choose, she could burn everything. She wonders if he would cry. She hopes so. 

It is childish and petty and isn't that what he thinks of her? He has lied to her and confined her here like a child, so she must behave accordingly. It is only fair. 

_We are Failure,_ she thinks.

She takes the last bottle of Tevinter Red from the rack, and when she turns to leave, she sees the door under the stairs. Not a door, really. Not even the outline. Just a wall that isn't quite right, that doesn't fit.

The seam between new stone and old is clearly visible. The mortar is cleaner, lighter, and doesn't crumble in places. Wards flicker when she touches it, just like the wards placed on his safe house, the wards she had come so close to breaking. They are a silver ripple across the surface. 

One does not ward an ordinary wall. She is not so stupid she doesn't know that much. And one does not ward a passageway that leads to nowhere. 

Whatever this is, whatever it was, it is a way out.


	17. So It Rages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants to fight.

"We're out of Tevinter Red," she says.

He doesn't look up from his book as he slips out of his night robe. He fumbles one handed with the covers as he climbs in bed. 

"Hmmm." He sounds miles away. 

"Tevinter Red," she repeats, as she sets the empty bottle on the nightstand, "You're not even listening to me are you?" She is too angry to get in bed and try for sleep. And too frustrated with his magic and her ignorance to play nice. His wards are ridiculous. 

"You've finished the last bottle of your favorite wine. I'm listening, vhenan." Is he, really? She doubts that.

He turns another page, his face still partially obscured. 

"Good. Now tell me why I can't leave," she says,"The idiots posted at the gate seem to be under the impression I'm not allowed."

He finally looks up at her. But only for a second. An eyebrow arches up and then he's back to the damn page and the damn words. And even the hunch of his shoulders irritates her. 

"It's not safe," he says, sounding bored,"Enemy forces are---" Of course. A classic excuse. Safety. She is so very small and weak and fragile. She needs to be shielded from the harsh, terribleness of the world. He is so very good at forgetting who she used to be and what she used to do.

"If it was as simple as that, they wouldn't have laughed at me," she says, "Am I a prisoner or not? And if I am, why didn't you see fit to tell me?"

"You are not a prisoner."

Lies.

"Then tell your guards," she says. I dare you, she thinks, but she knows what he will say before he says it.

"When the forest is secure, I will." He will not. He will wait and hope she forgets and then she'll give up because it's easier that way. This time, though, this time is different. She is not going to let it go. She is not going to be content to sit and be useless for the rest of her life. 

"I don't think you understand me," she says,"This is not a request."

"Oh, I see. I had no idea."

When he looks up, he's smiling. Laughing. He's amused at her expense and since she's already furious it makes the edges of her vision blur and tinge red.

"This isn't funny," she says. 

He tucks the scrap of paper he was using as a marker back in his book. He shuts it and puts it aside, and he is so very casual about it all. They may as well be deciding on new drapes for the library.

"I agree," he says, "It isn't funny." Still smiling. Still almost laughing. Still infuriating. 

"Stop it," she says.

"You can leave when it's safe, until then, if there's somewhere you wish to go---"

"There is an endless number of places I want to go. Alone," she says, "I neither need nor want company."

She feels a moment of satisfaction when she sees the flicker of irritation on his face. But it is short lived.

"It is still too dangerous," he says, "This rule was not designed solely to annoy you. No one walks the ground alone. Only the patrols are allowed out of the Keep."

A clever man is a man who can lie with the truth, she thinks. Keeper Deshanna once told her that. And it is true. 

"I feel like I don't even know you anymore."

His smile slips. Finally. He grips the blankets, hands curling into fists. 

"I could say the same thing," he counters, "You act like a child, impulsive and volatile. Prone to tantrums when she doesn't get her way." 

And there it is. She is little better than a child. 

Her mouth snaps shut. There is no point to any of this. He has made up his mind and she has things she should be doing, things that don't involve him or sleep or this blasted conversation. It is just a matter of time before he realizes what she intends and she doesn't want to be here or unprepared when he tries to stop her. 

She cinches her robe a little more tightly around the waist and turns on her heel. Their room connects to the library and it is late. She will not be disturbed.

"Where are you going?" he asks. 

She ignores him. She doesn't trust herself to speak. She hears him pull on his robe as she shuts the door behind her. She doesn't know where to start. There are so many books and so many shelves. 

She hears the door open and shut and when she looks up, he's standing with his arms crossed, glaring at her.

"How perfectly you illustrate my point," he says.

She turns back to the task of finding a book. She can't choose one that will tip him off, but he has fiction novels scattered throughout the shelves. As long as she doesn't pick up one of Varric's, she will be fine. 

"Vhenan, please, stop this," he says. He follows her into the next section.

"Are you going to speak to the guards?" she asks.

She runs her fingers along the titles. 

"When it is safe---" he says, and then sighs when she continues on, "If it means that much to you, we can arrange for an escort. Where did you want to go? I would be glad to join you."

She chokes down a rude laugh. An escort is the last thing she wants and he knows it. He is not even pretending to compromise. He does not care.

"What do you want me to do, let our enemies kill you?" he asks.

His enemies, she thinks, not mine. Not ours. Sera went out of her way to contact her. She wouldn't have done that if she thought Lavellan was her enemy. She wouldn't. 

She realizes she chose poorly. This section is strictly non-fiction. It is dry research material. When she tries to backtrack and walk past him, he catches her wrist.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks. He presses her palm to his heart. He looks pained.

She can't answer that. She can't look at him without bristling. She isn't allowed to leave. She isn't allowed the same basic freedom as the rest of his People. She is not a person. 

She is a thing he amuses himself with when it suits him. She has been angry with him before, but never like this. It never hurt to breathe quite the way it does now. 

"We can speak of this tomorrow," he says, his thumb rubbing circles on her skin, "Come to bed. Please." No. She will not.

She extracts herself from his hold. She snags a random book from the shelf and sits in an uncomfortable chair and pretends to read. The pages are brittle and they smell musty. She wonders what forgotten pit he plundered to retrieve it. And more importantly, why he bothered. 

He stares at her for very long time. She hears every breath he takes. 

"Very well," he says, "I doubt you'll be comfortable there, but if that's where you wish to sleep."

It is the world's most boring book about the history of Creation magic. The first page is a very long run on sentence. She doesn't have a lot of faith she'll make it through the chapter. 

"You're infuriating," he says, but it sounds like the fury has gone out of him.

"You lied to me," she says.

"Many times, yes."

"And you still don't see why that upsets me," she continues. She turns another page. The ink is faded and smudged and difficult to read. It is probably just as well. The author is so painfully boring. 

"I do," he says, "I understand, but I can't let you risk your life needlessly."

"It's my life to risk," she says, "If I choose." And she does choose. She was willing to overlook so many things when she thought she was the last. When all she had left was him.

"You're being ridiculous," he says, "Come to bed."

"No." She will not share a bed with someone who thinks she is so addled she has to be watched and minded like a child. And then lies about it. 

"Fine. If you wish to sleep sitting in a chair, who am I to try to stop you?" he snaps. 

"Who, indeed," she says. But it is not a question.

She hears the sharp intake of breath and feels his gaze, his confusion. He watches her pretend to read this horrible book until she thinks she's going to start dozing from the tedium of it all. Why does he even have a book written by someone who doesn't understand punctuation and verb tenses? 

When she wakes the next morning, still curled up in the chair, she has a crick in her neck and someone has draped a blanket over her.


	18. And Now It Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera is bold.

The explosion wakes her. There is smoke and fire and it takes her a moment to find the source. 

The library is burning, she realizes. There is a hole in the wall and the mortar is crumbling, ugly cracks forming. There is nothing delicate about the damage.

This is not a dream.

Sera, she thinks, and she runs to the edge, looks out, ready to jump. She sees the forest, dark under the night sky. She feels the wind on her face. She thinks she sees someone moving further into the trees. Barely a shadow.

Arms wrap around her middle and haul her back. They drag her through the smoke, out of the burning library, away. They tighten around her when she struggles. When she tries a lightning spell, her hand only flickers and then the spell is snuffed out. Fire is no better, and she is too drained by then to try ice.

It is like the aftermath of a templar's spell purge or mana drain. Her limbs feel too heavy and her head aches. For a terrible second she is limp in the circle of his arms while he drags her away from the library.

Then she screams.

And screams.

And screams.

"No," he says,"You are safe." She does not want his idea of safe. He kisses her temple, his lips dry and rough. He touches her face.

When she can, she bites his hand. There is blood in her mouth and when he lets go, cursing, she runs. She doesn't reach the door before he catches her, pulls her back, shoves her too hard. She cracks her head on the wall and sees stars.

He is wide eyed and pale and blood streaks down his arm. He doesn't bother to heal it. He grips her shoulders like its the end of the world and she's his last tether. 

"You can't," he says. He screams it. 

Abelas watches from the doorway until Solas notices him. 

"I have had enough of these games," Solas says. When he slips into Elvhen, Abelas tenses. He nods and bows and shouts orders to the guards. She doesn't follow all of it, but she catches enough. 

It has been a long time since she believed in gods and a higher power, but she hopes for one now. If anyone can hear her, she hopes they're watching Sera. She is afraid.

"Don't you dare," she says. But the guards are already gone, running, shouting more orders to the rest of the Keep. Run, Sera, she thinks. Run.

"You could have been killed," he says. 

"Don't you dare," she shouts. 

"I will do what I must," he says.


	19. It's Like A Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so she hurts him the only way she can.

She turns her head when he tries to kiss her.

"I am not your whore," she says.

His breath catches and she has never seen him this pale. She tamps down a twinge of guilt and thinks about the bruise she wouldn't let him heal and the unwanted presence of the guards that have been dogging her steps. 

Since the attack, she is never alone. 

She doesn't know what makes her angrier, the bruise, the guards, or the way he nullified her magic that night. How helpless she felt, stripped down and broken. She can't think about the threat to Sera, because if she does, she doesn't know what she'll do. Her friend is alive and if Solas kills her---she has already lost too many people.

She can't bear it.

"Is that what you think?" he asks, his voice low, cracking, "Is that how I make you feel?" He looks like he's going to be sick. 

"What else could I think?" she asks.

He recoils, but the sight does not flood her with joy. She thinks it should, but she feels nothing. There is only a terrible emptiness. She is cold and there is anger but nothing more.

"I love you," he says.

"This is not love," she says, "Don't lie to yourself." But she does love him. No matter how she tries, she can't cut the feeling out of her. She can't kill it.

"Get rid of my guards," she continues, "I want to be alone."

When he nods, he doesn't look at her. He doesn't speak. He doesn't try to protest or convince her it was all for her own good. They both know better.

He sleeps somewhere else tonight.


	20. These Pretty Dead Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does not care for flowers anymore.

In the morning, white tulips and crystal grace rest against her door.

It is not a good day.

His People watch her with open hostility. They are pleased to dispense with false pleasantries extended on Solas' behalf. It is even more obvious when she wanders in for breakfast. Hers is different from the others. It smells strange and looks strange and there is no force in the world that could make her try it. 

She steals carrots and radishes from the store rooms instead. It isn't very filling but it is better than being poisoned. 

The wine is curiously absent from the wine cellar. All of it. Even the disgusting Elvhen dirt wine. 

She does not see Solas. She can not break the wards.

 

In the morning, white tulips and red chrysanthemums rest against her door.

Like the day before, none of the food she is given is edible. She doesn't believe they would really attempt to poison her, but she isn't so confident she can let herself risk it. 

She steals apples from the store rooms and wishes she was brave enough to steal an actual meal.

Little things go missing from her room, important things---her favorite shirt, her pillow in one of Josephine's ridiculous pillow cases, but worst of all, Dorian's crystal. She wastes most of the day looking for it. She finds no trace. More than once she thinks she hears someone laughing at her.

She doesn't see Solas. She doesn't have a chance to try to break the wards.

 

In the morning, Abelas waits outside her door. He pointedly ignores the new bouquet of white tulips, daffodils, and orange lilies propped up against the door frame. He crosses his arms and scowls and she very much regrets leaving her room.

"What do you want?" she asks, unable to mask the suspicion. He has no reason to speak to her. 

"Apologize to him," he says, in a tone that makes her bristle, "This is foolish."

She thinks of Dorian's missing crystal. She thinks of her empty stomach and the cook's horrifying food and how more of the same awaits her. 

Apologize? Never. Not in any life time.

"I will not," she says.

"You should," he says, "This game is childish. It is beneath you both."

She shuts the door in his face and doesn't open it again until she hears him leave. 

The cook tries to give her another strange meal. The store rooms are locked so she ends up stealing from one of the gardens. When she returns to her room, she finds the door open and her blankets gone. They've left only the sheets on the bed.

She steals a blanket and pillow from one of the other rooms. She hopes they belong to the thief, but she doubts she's that lucky.

She does not see Solas. She does not want to see Solas. She still can not break the wards.

 

In the morning, white tulips and daisies rest against her door. She doesn't see Abelas until she steps into the hall and shuts her door. And then he is there, crowding her. 

"Go away," she says. He is worse than a dog. 

"Not until you see reason."

"Then we will be together forever, because your idea of reason is ridiculous," she says. He stops her when she tries to retreat. He gets between her and the door and she very much wants to break his pretty nose. 

"He sacrifices too much for you," Abelas says, "And you are ungrateful. It is a small thing to ask for forgiveness. It costs you nothing." But Solas has sacrificed nothing, she thinks, nothing that belonged to him, nothing he had a right to sacrifice. They were her people. It was her world. Her friends. Her life.

"Go away," she repeats, "And tell him to stop. The flowers are a waste." She will not be swayed by pretty dead things. 

"I will not leave," he says, "And I have already told him that. He persists."

"It is no wonder your People have so much time to devote to tormenting me. You are too busy attending to Solas' mistakes to bother with your duties, whatever they may be, " she says.

"What are you talking about it?"

She stares at him. He is as good a liar as Solas, it seems. She could almost believe him.

"You know very well what I'm talking about," she says, "Your People have been stealing from me and your cooks have been tampering with my food. Believe what you will, but I am not so stupid I don't know where it's coming from. I will not apologize to him now or tomorrow or ever and if you don't get out of my way I will move you myself. I promise, you will not enjoy the experience."

Give me a reason, she thinks, just one.

"They should not have done that," he says. The wind seems to go out of his sails. He steps aside, just enough for her to open the door and squeeze past him.

He looks like he wants to say more but she is hungry and tired and has no patience for any of this. She slams the door. 

She doesn't have to wait long before she hears his footsteps moving away.

She doesn't bother with the cook or the food.. She heads to the garden directly, steals a tomato, and pretends it's because she wants to. 

She doesn't see Solas. She can not break the wards.

 

In the morning, she doesn't want to open her door, but when she does, she finds a pile of her missing things, violet hyacinths, and more of those damned white tulips. Why, she wonders, what is it with him and white tulips?

There is a bottle of Tevinter Red, and thankfully, no sign of Abelas.

Her breath catches when she sees what is sitting on her pillow. Dorian's crystal, she realizes. It is so much of a shock, just seeing it there, she is almost tempted to track him down and say thank you.

Almost. 

She does not see Solas. 

She sits in the wine cellar with her bottle of Tevinter Red and Dorian's crystal. She cycles through the Tevene curse words he taught her and tries to remember what counter spells she wants to try. But the only things that come to mind are bizarre combinations that make no sense. Everything she has attempted has failed. 

She is the reason the Veil burned and everyone died. She is the reason the Inquisition fell. It was her leadership. It was all her. She is stupid and she is weak. 

Her magic is no match for his. 

But on the fourth try, the wards break.

They break.


	21. So Many Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She will not stay.

Her instinct is to run. But the wall is solid and she doesn't have a subtle way to break through. There are too many people nearby who would come, who would stop her. She will not ruin her chances because she is impatient.

But she is impatient.

She takes a breath and wills her heart to stop racing.

She will have to wait until dark. She will need supplies, some kind of weapon perhaps. She will need---she will need---

The thought breaks off when she hears footsteps on the stairs. She doesn't have time to fumble with her own wards, and even if she did, they wouldn't be very good. She hopes no one will think to check. 

She stares at the wine rack and pretends she's looking for a bottle that isn't empty. Even though it's obvious there's nothing left to find, with the way she drinks lately, no one will think twice about it. She is a drunk in denial. It will work.

She hopes.

"What are you doing down here?" 

Abelas again. She doesn't try to hide her scowl. She sees too much of him lately. She wonders what it is he even does.

"What does it look like?" she snaps, "I need another bottle." 

"There's no wine here," he says, his eyes narrowing, "And I think you've had more than enough."

You would, she thinks. When it becomes clear he's not going to leave, she kicks the wine rack and retreats. She doesn't look up until she's one step below him. He blocks her when she tries to go around.

"Stop," he says, "Please."

She could scream.

"What is it now?" she asks.

"You have no reason to come down here again," he says, "Do you understand me?" He catches her wrist when she slips around him. 

"I am quite fluent in Pretentious Asshole, so yes, I understand you," she says.

"Wait," he says as she pulls away. Do not touch me, she thinks. Do not look at me, she thinks. 

"What now?" She doesn't want to know. She wants him to go away and leave her alone and she wants to find out what's hidden behind that wall.

"He wants to see you," he says.

"No." There is too much temptation when they are face to face. Seeing him is bad. Hearing his voice is bad. She will not let him shake her resolve. 

"I'm not finished."

"You are," she says, "Don't ask me again."

"I'm not asking," he says.

"Then what are you doing?" she asks. She doesn't wait for his answer. She hurries up the stairs, and he follows. Because of course he does. She needs a door to slam. Possibly two. 

She pauses near the top of the stairs. It is sudden enough he almost bumps into her.

"On second thought," she says, "Tell him I'll be happy to see him." She gives him the closest she can get to a smile. She doubts it's convincing.

"You will?" Abelas asks, looking suspicious.

She nods, "Yes, of course, once I'm allowed to leave." And not before. But he will not agree to those terms. She knows it. Abelas knows it. Solas knows it.

She leaves him sputtering.

 

And yet, Solas is waiting at her door with white tulips, yellow tulips, and red roses of all things. He looks as if he can't decide whether to leave them or wait. But then he sees her and he's dressed like Solas the mage instead of Fen'Harel the murderer.

That damned sweater she doesn't even like. 

It was so much simpler when it was just Abelas in the cellar. She could hold on to her anger. Seeing him like this makes her waver. She is in over her head. 

She takes the flowers when he offers them.

"May we speak?" he asks, "Please?" 

No, she thinks, absolutely not. But if he's here with her, he isn't discovering the broken wards. He isn't replacing them. He isn't thwarting her. Her stomach lurches. 

"Please," he repeats. 

"Fine," she says. Her hands are shaking, but she lets him in. 

"Thank you," he says. As if she's doing him a favor. 

She takes her time shutting the door and finding a place for the flowers.When she looks at him, she doesn't know what she's going to say. She doesn't know and it's terrifying.

He does not smile.

"I miss you," he says, "Can we start again?"

No, we cannot, she thinks, but then because she hasn't made enough mistakes today, she drags his face down and kisses him. His hands come around her back and slide down to cup her ass. He tastes like ale. A lot of ale.

This is a very, very bad idea.

"I want to start over," he says. 

"If I can come and go as I please, perhaps," she says, at last. Her voice is not steady. No matter what his answer, she will not stay. She wants to hear Sera's account of the world. She wants news that isn't filtered through Solas and his People. She wants to see it for herself. 

"No," he says, "Ask for anything else and I will do my best to grant it, anything. But not that. Ir abelas."

"Then no," she says, "We can't start again." She kisses him again. She curls her hand behind his neck and nips his jaw. She is so stupid. 

"Ellana, please," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, "We can not just---we need to---" 

"There is nothing to talk about," she says. Neither of them will change their minds so there is no point. One way or another, she is leaving.

When his breath rushes out, it's a hiss in her ear. He presses against her, hands sliding up under her shirt, fingertips tracing the length of her spine. When she tries to guide him to her bed, he resists.

"I want this," he says, "I want you, but we need to talk. We can't just---"

"I don't want to talk," she whispers. If they talk, she has to yell at him and throw him out. And she is too keyed up for that. 

He groans and lets her push him back, lets her shove him down onto the lumpy mattress. She follows, climbing on top of him. When he shifts to roll her under him, she realizes they are both wearing too much clothing. 

She tugs at the hem of his shirt. What is she even doing? What is this? 

Again, he hesitates.

'What's wrong?" she asks. She runs her fingers under his shirt, savoring the feel of his skin, the warmth.

He drags his teeth along her jaw. He parts her lips with his tongue. He draws the breath right out of her. 

"Ir abelas. I didn't know the People would trouble you," he says, finally, "I've dealt with the thieves and the cooks have been reassigned. It will not happen again."

"I don't want to talk about it." She really doesn't.

He lets her tug his shirt over his head. He lets her drag him back down. He lets her wrap her legs around him before he tears his lips away and tries again. 

"Please, talk to me," he says. He kisses her cheek again. 

"No," she says. She starts to sit up, to disentangle from him.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she says. 

His expression goes blank. He pushes her flat, tugs her pants down and throws them. He kisses her too hard, his hands tangling in her hair. He holds her still.

"I thought you wanted to talk," she says, when she's able to catch her breath. He bites her shoulder, just hard enough to bruise. He kisses her neck, her jaw, her ear.

"I've changed my mind," he says.

His voice falls flat. He does not smile. 

 

She slips out when he falls asleep. 

She does not have armor and she does not have a weapon, but she tucks a letter opener in her boot. Laughable, yes, but she doesn't need a staff to cast. The letter opener is secondary. It is better than nothing.

She has an apple left over so she takes that as well. And Dorian's crystal. 

Every time she glances at his still form, she expects him to look up. It's a small miracle he doesn't wake. She thanks whoever served him the ale.

No one has replaced the wards. Her plans have not been discovered. Another small miracle. 

She presses her hand flat against the stone, a spell half formed, when something knocks on the wall. She startles and pulls back. Then, when her heartbeat slows to a reasonable pace, she presses an ear to the stone and listens.

The knock repeats, louder this time. 

"Is someone there?" she asks.

It is not a spirit, whatever it is. It doesn't pass through the stones. It strikes the wall. Again and again and again.

This is a terrible idea, she thinks. 

She doesn't care.

She presses her palm to the wall again.

"If you can understand me," she says, "You should take cover. I'm going to try something."

There is a pause and then the sound of footsteps shuffling away. Whatever it is, they are intelligent enough to understand. That is good because it rules out walking corpses and spiders. Gods but she hates spiders.

She super heats the rock and then flash freezes it, several times, until cracks form in the mortar. The energy it pulls from her is punishing. She is going to tire too soon, well before she breaks through, but she continues. She only stops when the mortar starts to crumble.

She hits it with a telekinetic blast and the wall shatters.

She feels dead on her feet. She sags, steadies herself, and looks into the darkness.

When the dust settles, there is movement. She hears that shuffling again, and a pale face appears, a familiar face with dead eyes. He doesn't smile. He doesn't frown. He is expressionless. 

How, she wonders. How is it possible? 

It is worse than a knife wound, a sharp twisting pain in her gut. This can't be real. He can't be here. 

"Cole," she says. 

He hadn't needed her to break the wall, he could have come through at any time. He waited for her to break through.

Why? 

"We are Failure," he says, "We are not Cole."

He has not bothered to change since the Veil fell. He still carries the daggers she gave him. His armor is still stained with the same dark blood. She doesn't let herself think too much about that. This is how she remembers him. This is what he looked like right after Dorian died. 

Except for the eyes. His eyes are wrong. They are glassy and black and she is not convinced he's really seeing her. 

"Your name is Cole," she insists. But it isn't. Her Cole is dead and this is just an echo. 

He doesn't flicker quite the way he does in the Fade, but he does flicker. She sees Rage. She sees Despair. She sees Apathy. 

"How are you even here?" she asks, but he ignores the question.

"You have to run," he says, "We can't help you."

"We are nothing," he says.

"We couldn't save them," he says, "We can't save you."

"You have to run," he says. No. She will not leave him. Not here. Not now. Her stomach is a mass of knots and she is so tired she can barely stand, but she grabs his sleeve. 

"He's coming," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper. She doesn't have to ask who he means. She knows.

"Run," he says. 

She runs. 

They run.


	22. The Light Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Cole stops suddenly. 

"What's wrong?" she asks. They are almost out. She can see a faint glow illuminating trees. The tunnel opens up at the edge of the forest or inside it. It is the first good luck she's had. They'll be able to hide. 

But then, all at once, she is alone and Cole is gone. He vanishes and she feels cold air rush past her.

There should not be a light up ahead, she realizes, not this late at night. Someone is there, waiting, and Cole has left her to deal with it herself. She doesn't like it, but she understands. He said it himself, he can't help her. 

She pulls the letter opener out of her boot. She doesn't care how silly she looks, she's not going to make it easy for them. 

She hears nothing and sees nothing as she approaches the light. 

"Venavis!"

The outline that appears in the doorway is not Sera's. She grips the letter opener hard enough to hurt her hand. The armor is sentinel armor. He is one of Solas'. She can't breathe. How could they have gotten here so fast? How could they know where she'd end up? None of this makes sense.

He is not alone. 

His companion carries a torch in he left hand and a sword in his right. One of the smaller patrols, she thinks---she hopes---and that makes a bit more sense. She can stomach bad luck. She can not stomach being caught because she was too slow or Solas too fast. Bad luck can be overcome.

Eventually.

"Get out of my way," she says.

"Put that thing away," he says. 

His companion says something she doesn't understand and they laugh. 

She does not recognize either voice but she is distracted by the sound of distant footsteps in the tunnel behind her, moving closer. Always moving closer. She keeps the letter opener raised. The soldier levels his blade at her throat.

Damn it, Cole, she thinks. With his help, she might have had a chance.

"Drop your weapon," he says. He sounds like he wants to laugh again, and she can't blame him. He has a sword and she has this tiny thing. It is nothing and she is shaking, visibly. Cole has fled. She can't win. She is pathetic.

"Get out of my way," she repeats. She can't steady her hand no matter how hard she tries.

But the soldier's eyes go wide, he gurgles, and red spurts from a hole under his chin. The tip of a dagger peeks out of his skin and then it's gone. His companion drops the torch, turns to face their attacker, but it is too late. 

Cole slits his throat. He collapses beside the first soldier, blood pooling around them both.

Cole hasn't left her after all. 

She drops the letter opener and takes one of the swords. She tries not to think about Cullen, Cassandra, and Blackwall, but the sword in her hand is too much a reminder. She can hear their voices, see their faces. Too many memories.

It is an ache in her chest. It is raw, even after all this time. 

"We can't help them," Cole says. His voice is dead and his face is expressionless and she very much wants to scream. He sheathes his daggers and takes hold of her prosthetic hand. He doesn't stand there waiting for her to grab him. He reaches for her himself. 

Such a small thing, it should be unimportant. 

_We can't help you_ , he had said, _we can't save you._  


Apathy's words, but not Apathy's actions. And not Failure's either. There is something left of the old Cole. Somehow, he is still in there, and she feels something dangerously like hope.

When she hears the not so distant footsteps, she lets him pull her outside, into the night air and the forest. There is not much time left.

"He is coming," Cole says, still holding her hand. 

He matches her pace when they run. She is surprised he doesn't let go. 

 

When the arrow strikes the dirt, Cole vanishes.

She holds the sword as if she isn't dead on her feet and tries to find the archer. She is out of breath from running and she can't see anything in this darkness. Then the leaves rustle and a figure drops down from one of the trees. A woman, she realizes. She draws her bow, an arrow aimed at Lavellan's throat.

She is too busy staring at the sharpened point to realize who it is until the bow lowers.

"You have got to be shitting me," the archer says. Lavellan knows her voice.

She slips the arrow back into its quiver and snaps the bow back into place on her back. Lavellan stares at her, dumb struck. She almost can't believe it. 

"Sera?" she asks.

Her hair is shaved on the sides and the top is secured in a messy knot. The armor is unfamiliar and her face is streaked with dirt, but it is her. It's Sera.

"Shite, it is you. About frigging time," Sera says.

Lavellan drops the sword. Her fingers are cramped and she doubts she can pick it back up, but none of that matters.

"How'd you give old Elfypants the slip?" she asks, but she doesn't wait for an answer, she pulls Lavellan in. She hugs her. An actual hug. With actual arms. Sera is real and happy and she is not trying to kill her.

Her eyes are too hot and she is going to cry.

Solas is wrong again.


	23. From These Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tries not to sleep.

It is a small camp but it is a good camp. Sera is not the only familiar face, Lavellan realizes.

Loranil sits beside her, pretending not to stare. She expects hostility at the very least, because she fell in love with the Dread Wolf and then he destroyed the world. But Loranil tears his bread in half and shares it with her. His smile is almost convincing.

Skinner from Bull's Chargers is keeping watch, but she nods her acknowledgment. Lavellan is too afraid to ask about Dalish. She has never seen the two apart before, and it is strange to see one without the other. She catches herself listening, expecting to hear Bull's laughter in the background.

The silence is crushing.

The other two are friends of friends. Merrill of clan Sabrae is the inspiration for the blood mage in Varric's novels and Zevran of the Antivan Crows is an assassin Leliana fought beside during the Blight. They are both very nice, but Merrill is much too cheerful, too eager. She is exhausting.

She flits between subjects in a way that reminds Lavelllan of a hummingbird in flight. She is fascinated by the prosthetic arm. She is fascinated by the Dread Wolf. She is fascinated by Cole, where ever he is. Lavellan can't keep up. 

Merrill doesn't really notice until Sera chucks a boot at her.

"Oh dear. I'm doing it again, aren't I?" Merrill asks.

"Stop fussing," Sera says, "Hey, we're moving out in a few, might as well catch some sleep while you can, right?" She nudges Lavellan with her foot. The circle of bedrolls around the cold fire pit is big enough for one more. Sera is right, but she doesn't want to sleep. Not while they're still in the damned forest. 

She fights it as long as she can. Solas is somniari. He hasn't been in her dreams since before the Veil fell. He had agreed to never intrude unless invited, but she doesn't trust him not to try it now.

She falls asleep two hours before they leave for Kirkwall. 

 

It is a good dream, she thinks, when he kisses her. His lips are sweet and full and she could happily go on like this forever, his hands tangled in her hair, his body pressed so close against hers. But then she remembers where she's supposed to be and that he is not supposed to be here. She pulls away, still slightly disoriented. 

The aravels and the forest dissolve, leaving them standing in the Crossroads. 

"Why are you here?" she asks. She bats his hand away when he tugs on a lock of her hair. 

"Where are you, vhenan?"

He does not wear the guise of the simple apostate. He is cloaked in robes that look like they were cut from the night sky, stars and all. The air around him is dark, clouded, almost thick. It's as if the light is leaching out of the world and into him. 

She doesn't know what he thinks he'll accomplish with this stunt but she is not impressed. She will not be cowed or frightened. She will not be swayed by petty parlor tricks. 

"Get out of my dream, Solas," she says. He had promised not to intrude. She is furious. 

"I couldn't find you in the Fade. I was worried," he says, "Come home."

"No," she says, "And you look ridiculous."

His gaze is too intense on her face and she can't read him. 

"I wear too many masks," he says, "I will not wear one in the Fade. Not even for you."

She doesn't know what to make of that. She doesn't want to see masks or disguises, just the truth, just him as he is and not what he wants her to see. She has had enough of the lies to last an eternity. 

Still, she very much doubts the image of him shrouded in a starry cloak and shadows is the truth. 

"I thought they were torturing you," he says, "You aren't sleeping."

"I wanted to avoid this."

"You mean me," he says, and he looks hurt. She tries not to care. She fails, but thinks she does a passable job of hiding it. 

"That goes without saying." 

"Killing my soldiers was unnecessary," he continues, "They were only following my orders."

"They were warned," she says.

"You had help," he says.

"Did I?"

His smile is small. He is amused. She is not. 

"Yes," he says, "You did. Tell me where you are." She steps back when he reaches for her. 

"Ask as many times as you want, but the answer is still no, I will not," she says. That is not home. It is a prison.

"Why?" he asks, "I have asked nothing of you and I have given you everything. Why is that not enough?" But he means, why am I not enough. Why is his world, which is clearly so vastly superior than the one sacrificed on his altar, not enough? Why are his People, who are also so vastly superior, not enough?

"You don't know me at all if you have to ask that question," she says.

"If you need to feel useful, there are an endless number of things that would benefit from your attention," he says, "You did not have to sit idle." This is not about not feeling useful. This is not even remotely about not feeling useful.

"Would you?" she asks, "Tell me, love, if I had kept you locked away in a pretty tower, would you have been content to just sit there? Would you have stayed?" 

From the way the smile slips off his face, she knows she has struck her mark. They both know the answer to that. He does not have a rebuttal.

The Fade shifts and he's behind her, arms curling around her middle as he kisses her temple. Just as he seems to pull the light from the world, he seems to pull the heat as well. The air is cold around him. 

"They will kill you to hurt me, vhenan."

She doesn't care what he believes, he is wrong. She squeezes his wrists, tries to pull free of them, but his arms are like dragonbone. 

"Then they will kill me and it will hurt you," she says, "You will endure. I can think of far worse fates."

"I will come for you. Then, once you are safe, I will stay away if you do not wish to see me."

"You can stay away right where you are. I don't need to return for that," she says, "Stop being stubborn and listen to me. Gods, you are insufferable."

"I am worried."

"Well stop. You needn't be," she snaps. 

"Do not underestimate the lengths your people will go to for revenge," he says, "I have done terrible things. In their eyes, I am a monster and you are my only weakness. Now that they have you, how long do you think you have before they use that to their advantage?"

She is glad she can't see his face. It is a good argument. It triggers all the nagging doubts and fears she is trying to lay to rest. But this is Sera and no matter what he thinks Sera will not sacrifice her for revenge. 

"I've had enough. You aren't welcome here," she says, and she hates how weary she sounds, "Just go. I am happy. I am safe. I am with friends. Accept it and move on---"

"You are still in the forest," he says, suddenly, sounding surprised, "They have not moved you yet. I thought for certain they would have by now." He catches her hand, kisses her palm. She feels him shudder, the other arm tightening around her. The air is so cold, but his breath is hot.

"Let me go," she says. 

She is waking up. She can almost feel the hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

In the last moment between waking and dreaming, he whispers, "Do not go to Kirkwall."


	24. Undeserving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is too much pain.

She doesn't think it should be this bad.

"What the frig is wrong with it?" Sera asks. She stares at the arm, equal parts horrified and disgusted. 

Because of course, she has another episode while they need to be silent. The forest is choked with patrols. Even more so than usual. 

She bites down too hard on her lip to keep from screaming. There is blood and she ends up making not so silent gasping sounds as she pitches forward. 

When they try to haul her to her feet, Loranil makes the mistake of trying to grab the prosthetic and his hand passes right through. He makes a wild sound and scrambles back almost as if he's been burned.

She's too busy emptying her stomach to care. 

"Take it off," Sera says, "Frigging ain't worth it. Take the stupid thing off." But she won't come any closer. 

"Did your arm just get longer?" Zevran asks. And now he sounds as horrified as Sera.

"It is," Merrill says, "This is wonderful. It's amazing! Can you just imagine what we could do? If we could learn to make them again---" She reaches out as if to touch it and Lavellan can't stop herself from flinching away. The pain will last hours. 

"Eugh, no, stop," Sera says, "This is too weird."

Skinner hauls her to her feet, careful not to touch her arm. She doesn't talk much but she sees everything, Lavellan thinks, and she wishes she could tell what the woman was thinking. Everyone else wears their thoughts on their sleeves, but this one is a mystery.

The world is still spinning, tilting perilously to the side.

"It'll pass in a bit," she says.

When someone grips her prosthetic arm and shifts it over their shoulders, she almost blacks out and then she is screaming. Skinner has a hand clamped down over her mouth and she just can't stop. It only lessens when they let go, leave her leaning on Skinner. 

She's going to be sick again. 

And Sera is looking at her like she regrets bringing her along, like she's tempted to send her right back.

It twists in her gut, worse than the pain in her arm and shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," she says, "I wasn't ready for it. The pain will pass in a few hours. I just have to---brace myself for it."

They hear crunching leaves. They hear something running through the forest. Someone. 

"Shit," Skinner says.

She almost topples over when Skinner lets go. She leans against a tree while Sera readies her bow and Zevran slips out of sight. Loranil puts himself in front of her, beside Skinner, and Merrill just stays put. 

The patrol is not small. 

She catches a glimpse of silver before they're surrounded. She counts twelve, all swordsmen except for two archers. She tries to breathe, but it feels like her chest is filling with stones.

They don't see Zevran. He manages to work his way around the circle---the only sign is a faint ripple of leaves. It is a small miracle no one else notices, but a miracle nonetheless.

The leader is a woman in heavy armor. She carries a halberd instead of a sword, and the left side of her face doesn't really move. 

"Well, there you all are," the woman says, "We can finally go home." She looks at Sera and her bow and just sort of sniffs, disdain rolling off her in waves. But Sera keeps her arrow trained on the woman's face.

"We are not going anywhere with you," Lavellan says. She pushes away from the tree, tries to stand tall. 

"Are you injured?" the woman asks, and when she looks at her, she can sense her irritation. 

"No," Lavellan says. It is automatic. She doesn't think not to answer. 

"Would you like to stay that way?" she asks.

"I--what?"

"Then shut up," the woman says, "Bind them. He wants them alive." Sera jerks her bow toward the first to move. He stops, rope in hand. 

"I said," Lavellan says, "We aren't going anywhere with you." 

And something comes hurling out of the sky. It hits the ground and explodes, sending thick plumes of smoke into the air. She feels movement, rather than sees it. And when the smoke clears, Merrill has half the group caught in thick, thorny vines. Sera finishes each one off with an arrow to the throat.

It all moves too fast. Lavellan manages to concentrate just enough to form a fireball, but it is a sad and pathetic thing. She clips one of the archers with it. They don't even burn. It glances harmlessly off their armor.

Zevran and Skinner take out the bulk of the soldiers.

She doesn't remember being this terrible. 

The woman is the last one standing. She knocks Loranil off his feet and has the edge of the halberd up against his throat.

"Are you fond of the little one?" she asks, "If you are I would suggest you lower your weapons."

Sera makes a rude noise.

"I dunno, five to one," Sera says, "I'm liking our odds." She fires before she finishes talking, and the woman, instead of slicing Loranil's windpipe moves to deflect. He rolls out of her reach. 

The woman laughs. Her leverage is gone. She is finished. 

"Very well," she says, "Be done with it."

But Sera hesitates.

"It's funnier if you limp on back to Stupid. What will all your other elfy friends think? You got bested by a bunch of nothings," she says, "Yeah. I like the sound of that. Fuck off before I change my mind. And while you're at it, tell him to fuck off too."

She shoots her in the knee.

It is a terrible idea.

 

They make it out of the forest and to the next and final camp just after dusk.

She wonders if Solas has taken something to make him sleep most of the evening, because he finds her almost as soon as she realizes she's dreaming. She doesn't even have a chance to brace for it.

He's here and he's furious.

"It was unnecessary," he says, "She is lucky the damage can be repaired." She gathers he's talking about the woman Sera shot. He is in his armor, but it looks brighter here. It makes the dark curling around him seem darker. His skin paler. 

"I thought I told you not to come uninvited into my dreams," she says.

"And I told you not to go to Kirkwall," he says, "It seems we are both destined to be disappointed."

"You are not this worked up over an arrow to the knee," she says.

"No," he says, "I am not."

And then he kisses her. It's hard and rough and she feels like she's splintering. His hands find their way under the waistband of her pants. He slides them down, palms cupping her ass. Even in the Fade his touch is like fire. 

"You are slowly driving me mad," he says when he breaks. 

"Not so slowly I think," she says. He presses his forehead to hers. He slides his hands up her back.

"I will beg you if I must," he says, "Please do not go to Kirkwall. Please, vhenan, please."

"Where else would I go?" she asks. 

"Home," he says, and he kisses her cheek, her jaw, her ear. 

"That isn't home," she says. It will never be home.

"Skyhold," he says, "Denerim. Orlais. Tevinter. Anything would be better than Kirkwall. I don't understand why you wish to seek out my enemies."

"It seems to be the one place I can go where you won't come swooping after me," she says, and though she tries, she can't keep the bitterness out of her voice. That is all he takes away from this, that she is seeking out his enemies. 

"I won't apologize for wanting to keep you safe," he says.

"You should apologize for being an idiot," she says, "It's not about that." She pries herself loose. 

"Isn't it?" he asks. He has that look again, the one that says he's stopped listening. 

"No, it isn't," she snaps, "We have the same argument over and over again and nothing changes. You don't hear me. You lied to me. How am I supposed to trust anything you've told me?" And you destroyed the world, she thinks, my friends are dead because of you, because of me.

They would be disgusted if they could see her now. If they knew. 

She does not deserve to be happy with him. She is not convinced she deserves to be happy at all. 

"You can't come here again," she says, "We can't do this."

And he is confused. His brow furrows and he reaches for her.

"Get out," she says.

"Get out!" she screams.


	25. Empty Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Kirkwall.

She does not know what she expects but it isn't this. 

"Andaran atish'an, lethallan."

Mahariel is not her brother, but he hugs her as if he is and she feels like she is nothing but broken pieces and splintered edges. She is shaking and then everything is gray.

She buries her face in his shoulder. 

"There are too few of us left," he whispers, his arms tightening. Her clan is gone. There is nothing left of them, but he is here and Merrill is here. There are others.

It is not the same but it is a shadow of home.

When he pulls back, he is smiling. His eyes are red. He looks much older than his years. 

"There will be time enough to talk later," he says, "Tonight, you have no worries. Eat with us. Drink with us. Try to forget your troubles. You are home." She realizes he hasn't looked twice at her arm. He doesn't even flinch away from it. 

"You're such a tit, Mahariel," Sera says, but there is no malice. He laughs.

She lets Sera drag her away. There isn't much green in Kirkwall. It is dust and sand and stark, cold stone. It is Tevinter and it is not. It is ancient and it is weathered but there is a newness about certain parts. There are places where the houses don't look quite right. They don't fit with the rest of the city.

She does not see enough faces, but the faces she sees are thin and tired and scared. She can't imagine they are a real threat to Solas. She can't imagine why he would fear them.

Solas was right about one thing. She feels something hanging over the city, something more than just tension. There is a weight. A darkness. She is glad Cole isn't here. Whatever this is, it can't be good for spirits.

Sera sneaks glances at her when she thinks she's not looking.

"What?" she asks.

Sera makes a face.

"I might have stretched the truth a bit," she says.

"About what?" Lavellan doesn't really care. She is overwhelmed and she wants to sit in a dark corner, wrapped in blankets until the world makes sense again. She doesn't know how much farther it is to the Red Jenny headquarters, but with each house they pass, she gets a little more impatient.

"Maybe I suggested there were more Jennies then there are," Sera says, "Might be a bit less than you think."

She doesn't want to know, but Sera seems to think she needs to explain.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think," she says.

When Sera stops, it's in front of the Blooming Rose. Lavellan's first impression is it's either a tavern or some kind of a brothel, and if the Jennies need something this big to house them, they aren't doing so terrible. 

"This is us," Sera says, and when she lets her in, Lavellan sees Loranil and Skinner. She sees Zevran. She sees Dalish. And about five others. About a dozen tables are pushed to the sides, each one cluttered with bits and pieces and weapons and armor. Some of the bits and pieces look strikingly similar to Qunari explosives. 

"Yeah," Sera says, "We're all there is. Well and Merrill sometimes. She's more a volunteer."

"That's ten people," Lavellan says.

"Eleven counting you. Twelve if we're counting Merrill," Sera says, "Sometimes a Grey Warden or two lends a hand. Could be worse, but yeah, not by much."

Lavellan's breath catches. There were more than this. The network was vast, ridiculously so. This can't be all that's left. 

"What happened to them all?" she asks. She is not going to like the answer. She already knows it. 

"His People happened. We got too close," Sera says," They don't take prisoners. You, yeah. They would have dragged your butt back, but us? We were as good as dead."

And maybe that's the worst part. She doesn't know if Solas would have killed them. She thinks, she hopes, he wouldn't. But she doesn't know. As angry as he gets, he wouldn't really. Not Sera. Not the last real friend she has. 

The empty chairs speak for themselves. He would. He almost had.


	26. Stubborn and Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do not believe her.

Mahariel asks too many questions and all of them are unimportant. Solas is not a force they can stop. Not now. Not anymore. 

"I want his daily routine. I want his likes, his dislikes. Everything," he says, "I want to feel like I know him."

No, you don't, she thinks. Mahariel is going to get himself killed. He's going to get all of them killed.

"You can't fight someone who can turn you to stone with just a thought," she says. Why does he not know this? 

"We have to try," he says, and then he starts again. There must be something she missed. There must be. Solas was just a man once and men have weaknesses. 

She is not going to say he has visited her dreams. She knows how it looks and there's no point. She hasn't seen him in weeks. She hasn't seen him since she screamed at him to go away. For the first time in a long time, he listened. 

She doesn't know how to feel about it, but she thinks she's almost happy. Definitely relieved.

"Lethallan, please, there must be something," Mahariel says. He pleads. He insists. 

She is going to scream. It's like talking to a wall. No, it's worse than that. It's like striking a wall with her head, over and over and over again. 

When the White Wolf joins him, she loses the last of her patience. He is surly faced and sour, his hair is a shock of white, but the lyrium tattoos are what gives him away. He is Fenris, Hawke's Fenris. Varric's Fenris. 

They are not going to be friends.

"There is nothing else to tell," she says, "You know everything I know." She has even told them about Cole. 

"If he's truly as powerful as you say, you would not have escaped," Fenris says, "You are lying."

If she was braver she'd set his chair on fire.

"I am not," she says. 

He doesn't hide his disgust. He wants her gone. He wants her out of his city. He wants to use her to get the Elvhen forces off his doorstep. A trade, if they must. Well, she thinks, the joke's on him because once she's traded, all bets are off. Solas will have no reason to honor their agreement.

When he sets his mind on something, he doesn't give up. Whatever he plans for Kirkwall, it will happen. 

"I don't care. I don't believe you," Fenris says, and his voice is harsh. He grips the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles go white. 

"Why are you really here? What does he want?" Fenris asks.

Sera throws them both out. Skinner helps. Dalish offers a complimentary Elven fireball as a parting gift. Too many Jennies died to even consider giving her back. They won't lose any more people. 

"Go ahead and try it," Sera says, "See where you'll be."

Mahariel, at least, pretends to be apologetic, but the look on Fenris' face tells her this discussion isn't over. He will try again. He will succeed. Eventually. 

She is not going back. She is not going back. She is not going back.

"I wouldn't be worried," Dalish says, once the door is firmly shut and locked, "They know where we stand." She goes back to tearing the stitches out of a ruined shirt and Skinner sits beside her with a whetstone and daggers. They work in silence and Lavellan tries to stop her heart from racing. 

"What does Solas even want with Kirkwall?" she asks Sera, "He won't come here. If it's so terrible, why does he care?" It doesn't make sense. She drinks her now cold and bitter tea and tries to calm her nerves. They have no sugar or honey to sweeten it. They ran out days ago. They've run out of a lot of things. 

Sera only shrugs.

"He's a crazy arsehole," she says, "Who knows why he does anything? Elvhen glory and shite."

She can only think of one thing he'd want with a place like this, and that one thing would be to watch it burn. 

 

Mahariel waits all of three days before he seeks her out again. She almost slams the door in his face, but he's with Fenris and they both look haggard and worn. They look scared. It's what stops her.

Fenris is spattered with blood and none of it his own. 

"What's wrong?" she asks. She will not like the answer they give. Go away, she thinks. Just go away.

"We need to talk," Mahariel says. 

"So talk," Sera says. She appears at at her side, wedges herself between them. She pretends she's using the dagger to clean her nails, but they all know the real reason. 

"You will to tell us everything you can about the Dread Wolf," Fenris says, "Everything you held back."

"I don't know what you expect. I've told you everything already," she says. If she has to go over it again, she is going to hurt someone. Maybe Sera will help. 

Mahariel makes a harsh sound in his throat. He looks pained.

"I know, lethallan, and I'm sorry," he says, "But we need to know now. If there's anything else, even if it seems insignificant---" She knows the look on his face---she has seen it on her own face, before, when the world was ending. Desperation. Something is very wrong. 

"Well there isn't." 

"Why now? What's wrong?" Sera asks, but it hits Lavellan all at once and she knows. She can see it on their faces. 

"Because," Fenris says, "He's here."


	27. They Will Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks he has them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall's layout confounds me, so this Kirkwall is not exactly the same as it is in game.

There is a new camp in the distance, deceptively small, deceptively unassuming. There is only an elaborate pavilion in black and green and gold, a smaller cluster of tents around it. But beyond the tents and beyond the pavilion, she sees the real number of his forces.

It is not the whole of his army, but there are too many to fight.

"I can't say this is really all that surprising," Mahariel says. He and Fenris are with her at the gate and Sera is with the Jennies, in a frenzy. None of them really know what to expect. 

"I did warn you," Fenris says.

"You dislike Merrill. That right there tells me not to take anything you say seriously," he says, "You can't blame me for---"

"I blame you for breathing," Fenris says and he crosses his arms over his chest. 

"Fair enough."

A lone soldier on horseback makes his way toward them. He still too far in the distance and she can't see his face. Brave, she thinks, but also, stupid. They are overconfident. 

It is probably not wise to stand here, but he is just one rider and Solas has not given them his demands. 

"There must be another way out of the city," she says. They can not risk leaving through the harbor. 

Mahariel watches the rider, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders squared. Fenris is much the same, but his expression is dark. 

After a moment, he says, "There are tunnels under Darktown. Several open into the Deep Roads. If it comes to it, we can use them to get out."

"Shit," Mahariel says, "Shit." He rubs his eyes and looks more than a little green.

"Eloquently put," Fenris says, his voice dry, emotionless.

She does not want to end up in the Deep Roads, she thinks, and she sighs. It is not their best option but it sounds like their only option. If the Darkspawn survived the fall, traveling through the Deep Roads with Grey Wardens is more than just a terrible idea. The wardens will be like a beacon, drawing them, calling to them. It is already too easy to die in the Deep Roads. 

This is going to go very badly.

She shoots a glance at Fenris.

"Just in case you were wondering, handing me over won't send him away," she says,"Sera burned part of his library." And it was glorious. 

He doesn't answer but it's just as well.

She recognizes the rider but can not remember his name. He is very young and very Dalish. He wears Falon'din's vallaslin, she notes, and she is very surprised. She had expected all of Solas' people to have cast them aside. 

He looks at them as if they're going to hack him to pieces and gnaw on his bones.

"I don't think he trusts us," Mahariel says, and he winks at the poor man, "Don't be afraid, da'len. We only bite if you ask." Shut up, she thinks. The crowd behind them can't really hear much but she doesn't care. She doubts they have the time to waste.

"What's your message?" she asks. She can not bring herself to call him lethallin, and she does not want to remember his name. 

"I'm to ask for your health and well being---" 

The soldier is not prepared for Mahariel, so when he swoops in, the poor man just sort of stares, his mouth half open. 

"How thoughtful of him," Mahariel says with a wide smile, "I'm doing well except for this annoying pain in my left knee. It twinges a bit when it rains." He makes an exaggerated groan as he bends his knee, and she very much wants to crawl into a hole and hide.

"No," the soldier says, looking mortified, "I'm supposed to ask---"

"Oh for Gods' sake," she says, "I'm fine. Hearty and hale. What else?"

She has never seen anyone quite this pale over a simple question. Though some of it is because of Fenris. The way the soldier looks at him, it's as if he sees a demon instead of a man. And his horse feels every bit of his trepidation. It is skittish and angry and far too aware of everything around it.

"No one's going to hurt you," she says.

"You might," he mutters, "You're to surrender and evacuate the city. You have until sunset, tomorrow." It sounds generous, but it isn't. There will be panic. The people will not go easy. 

"Let me guess what happens then," Mahariel says, and he is suddenly very calm, "He's going to burn the city." She almost chokes on a rush of rage.

"Yes," the soldier says, "No one will be harmed, but you can't stay. It is too dangerous---" The crowd does hear that and she expects chaos. But they go quiet, deathly quiet. 

"You are a fool if you believe that," Fenris says. And he glows. The horse shies away and it takes everything the soldier has to stay in the saddle.

"Calm yourself," Mahariel says, "He's just the messenger."

"He is complicit," he says, but he lets Mahariel pull him to the side. He steps back and tries to calm himself. 

The soldier stares like he is the only thing left in the world and she knows she should not feel insulted. Fenris is terrifying. It would be foolish to look anywhere else, but she feels it all the same. She is not a threat. She is just the thing they've come to retrieve. 

That he is Dalish makes it worse. 

Eventually, the glow that is Fenris dims.

"These people do not deserve to lose their homes because he has a bigger army," she says, "Why is he doing this?" Her fault again. Her fault. If she hadn't come here, if she'd gone somewhere else, if she'd stayed put---

"The boy doesn't know," Mahariel says, "Go on back to your camp."

The soldier bristles at the insult, but one look from Fenris has him turning his horse around, spurring it into a brisk trot. 

"He's going to kill us the moment we step outside these walls," Fenris says. She can't argue. She doesn't know. 

Something inside her snaps---it's like setting a broken arm or leg but without the physical pain. Parts of her come together and she is not afraid. She is too angry to be afraid.

"Get your people together, Mahariel," she says, " Solas won't harm the civilians. Send them out through the gates. Send the wardens out through the tunnels. The rest of us will follow you---we can't defend the city and I won't watch another sacrifice. "

"We should talk about this first," Fenris says.

"What's left to say?" she asks. She snaps at him, "Do you have some secret weapon I've yet to see? Is there a god killing blade or an elvhen foci or Elgar'nan himself? No? I didn't think so. He has us outnumbered. We are out of options."

"We can't give in so easily," he says through gritted teeth. 

"We are also running out of time," she continues.

After a while, Mahariel gives her a nod. 

"Do you have a map of the tunnels?" he asks Fenris.

"Hawke does---did," he says, and his shoulders slump, "I remember where it is. I'll get it." The edge goes out of his voice and he sounds strange. 

"Good," Mahariel says, "There's time to copy and distribute them. We'll split into groups, spread out, take different routes. Even if he knows about the tunnels, it'll be harder to track us all."

Fenris is already moving away. 

"Everyone else," Mahariel says, and he pitches his voice so it carries to the crowd, "Spread the word. We have until sunset tomorrow to evacuate the city. Take only what you can carry, and for Gods' sake, stay calm."

She stops him when he starts to leave. She catches a hold of his wrist.

"Wait," she says.

He arches an eyebrow but stops.

"Do you have any Warden mages?" she asks.

"A few," he says, "But not many, why?"

She sucks in a deep breath and tries to banish all thoughts of the Deep Roads and spiders from her mind.

"If we're going into the Deep Roads," she says, "I need a weapon. Do you have an extra staff I could borrow?" She wants one more than she needs one. 

"Probably. I'll ask around," he says, "Do you have armor? Robes?"

"Sera has that covered, but thank you," she says. Borrowed armor meant for Jennies who didn't make it back, she thinks, and her rage cools and all that remains is sadness. 

She wonders, how can Solas live with this?


	28. And It Is Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurts but she can't stop.

Wintersbreath is not like her staff. It is dragonbone twisted into the shape of a long branch and it is always cold. She has always favored fire over ice, but the feel of the staff in her hand is good. She doesn't mind the chill.

"It belonged to an old friend," Mahariel says, his gaze shifts inward and he looks a little sad. 

She really should ask, she thinks. He seems to want her to.

"What was their name?" she asks.

"Wynne," he says, "I'll tell you about her some time. If your boyfriend doesn't turn us all into statues."

"That would be nice."

"On the bright side, if we're in the Deep Roads, we don't have to worry about bird shit," he continues, "I have it on good authority is the literal worst fate that can befall a person. Turned to stone and then bird shit, everywhere, forever."

"Yes," she says, and she is a little bewildered. He is the most peculiar man, she thinks. 

He pats her a little too hard on the back and then heads back out into the chaos. The calm was only temporary. Once word started to spread, everything fell apart. The Dread Wolf is many things to many people, but when he says he's going to destroy a city, no one calls him a liar. Everyone is afraid.

It has been ages since she last used a staff. She is rusty and she can't afford to be.

Dalish finds a spare set of robes. The enchantments are not terribly helpful---royal sea silk for defense against magic attacks and quillback leather for ranged defense---but the robes themselves are sturdy and comfortable. They will do nicely, she thinks.

Outside, someone is shouting. She hears a crash and then the door opens and Fenris is here, glaring at her. She catches a glimpse of an overturned cart and two very red-faced men scuffling. Then the door slams and the shouts are muted.

"Sera," he snaps.

"Upstairs," she says, but he is already storming away.

"You're welcome," she says. When he returns, not two minutes later, his face wears an even darker expression. 

He is stuck with the task of leading their group through the tunnels. He is stuck with Merrill and the Jennies and Sera and her. He will come for them in the morning and anyone who dallies will be left behind. 

She doubts he means it. She has no reason to but she does. 

 

She gives in and sleeps. She doesn't think she will see him but he comes. When she sits at the desk she hasn't touched in literal years and sifts through endless stacks of blank pages, he makes the world melt away. They are standing in the Crossroads. His face is grim and he doesn't speak. He looks at her and waits.

There is something different about him but she can't place it. It's almost like there's more of him or he is more solid, more real, more something. But none of that is quite what she feels when she looks at him. 

He is in soft clothes of black and green and gold. The material is rich and fine and cut in a way that makes him look like he's been pulled from another time. 

Oh. Well. He is from another time, she remembers, and now she feels stupid. 

"You can't be serious," she says. The dark and the cold still curls around him and it adds to the sense of wrongness. She hates it. She wishes she could banish it all.

He sighs.

He looks weary.

"I regret that I did not deal with Kirkwall sooner," he says, "I should not have waited. This is my fault." It is, she agrees, but she is not appeased. Not even remotely.

"I was distracted," he says.

"I did not anticipate the Veil's influence," he says. Whatever that means. 

"I don't understand you," she says.

But he stops and stares at her and his hands are clenched at his sides. She wants to scream at him. She wants to shake him. She wants to chase him off this path and force him to make sense again. It is madness.

"You can't tear down the world every time you think it's wrong," she says.

He doesn't speak.

"Don't do this," she says, but she knows better than to think he will listen. If she couldn't convince him to spare the world, there is no chance he will spare a city.

"You don't understand," he says at at last. But how could she if he doesn't bother to explain? 

"Red lyrium," he says, "The corruption runs deep under Kirkwall. It's a very old vein, one not easily excised. If your people had any common sense and settled elsewhere, I wouldn't have to resort to this. You have forced my hand."

She is not impressed with his explanation and it makes her temper flare. Their fault, of course, because he wants it to be. If it's their fault, he doesn't have to look at himself. 

He is probably telling the truth, in a sense. There probably is red lyrium, but one doesn't burn a city because it exists somewhere beneath it. They did not raze the Emprise du Lion. They did not torch the Hinterlands or the Emerald Graves or where ever else they found the damn stuff. 

Red lyrium can be destroyed with enough time and effort. And it was. They did.

"What else?" she asks, "What aren't you telling me?" There is always something with him.

"It will not matter after tomorrow," he says, "It is not your burden to bear." Enough, she thinks. Enough of this and his riddles. 

"What. Else," she grinds out, "Just tell me." 

He seems to stop breathing when she comes too close. When she starts to reach for the front of his shirt, intent on hauling him down to her level---she only just stops herself. Touching him at all is a bad idea.

"There are some battles you cannot fight, vhenan," he says, "There are powers far greater than Corypheus in this world. And not all of them slumber." It makes her skin crawl but when she opens her mouth to ask, she can't speak. A dark feeling settles in her core and she knows if he does tell her she won't be able to follow the wardens into the Deep Roads. 

It is her only way out. 

He steps back. 

"Tell their soldiers," he says, and his voice is like steel again, "I am willing to forget their aggression. I will not pursue them, but they must cease this fighting. I do not wish for another war."

Her breath catches and she wonders how his mind works if he can say this with a straight face. 

"You can not claim you stand for peace while you chase your enemies from their home and burn their city to the ground," she says. She can't keep her voice steady. 

But he can and he is. 

She is thinking of red lyrium and monsters worse than Corypheus. She is thinking of darkspawn and archdemons. She is thinking of Solas.

How can she still love the man who destroyed the world? What does that say about her?

"If you explain it, I could tell them," she says, "I can make them understand. You don't have to burn their homes, Solas. We can find another way."

Something breaks inside of him. He surges forward and kisses her. He curls her hair around his fingers, tugs her head back. She lets him coax her lips apart---she matches his intensity, his desperation, his need. She presses against him, so close, too close---she almost can't feel where she ends and he begins. She grips his arms and all she can do is just hold on.

The world is much simpler when it's reduced to just this, she thinks, just soft lips and sweet breath and the wet slide of his tongue. 

When they break, they are both shaking. 

"Do not make me chase you," he says, resting his forehead against hers, "I don't want to chase you." His voice is a whisper.

"I am sorry I can't be the man you deserve," he says, "But I love you. With all of my heart, I love you. Please, vhenan, come home."

She had thought she had fixed the broken parts of herself, but she realizes it was all a clever lie. She hasn't fixed anything. She feels the broken edges twist and splinter. She feels a pain so sharp and real it makes her eyes water. 

She is tired.

So very tired.

"I love you too," she says, "Gods help me, but I do."

His hands slide down her neck, her shoulders. His fingers curl around her arms, too forcefully again---as if he can feel her slipping away, as if he can stop her if he just holds on tight enough. She knows the feeling. She tried it herself for so long

"But I can't go back," she says. She doesn't know how she pulls away. She wants to lean into him and forget for just a little while longer what he's going to do. She wants to pretend, but that would be a mistake. And she has made far too many of those lately.

"Vhenan---" he says. Don't look at him, she tells herself. Don't look at his face.

"No, Solas," she says, "This is something I have to do." She needs to be without him. She needs to be alone to think and breathe and make her own decisions. She needs to see for herself if she can forgive and move on or if it is too much, if the weight of what he's done is too heavy to bear. She will never know that if she stays. His presence is overpowering. 

"Why?" he asks.

But she says, "Don't chase me."

If there are any gods, she thanks them, because she wakes up.


	29. What Lies Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something strange in the Deep Roads.

She finds Mahariel before he leaves. His is the first group to leave, to clear the tunnels if there's anything there. He is standing in front of a scarred table, looking down at Hawke's poorly drawn map. 

It is not an easy conversation but he deserves to know. Sera had already informed her she was a complete and total twat for not telling them sooner. 

She does not want to tell Fenris at all. 

"You know," Mahariel says, and he is unimpressed with her confession, "That was the kind of thing I was talking about. It would have been nice to know you had a way to communicate with the bastard."

"And you would have done what, exactly?" she asks, "Smiled and said, that's nice, dear, now run along." She levels the Look at him, the one she used when passing judgment as Inquisitor.

He is immune. Because why wouldn't he be? He's been doing this far longer than she has. 

"Obviously, no," he says, "I would have had you invite him to a good, old fashioned Dalish tea party. Well, Fenris would have objected and wanted to uninvite you both from life, but that's how he is with everyone who almost destroys the world."

"Dalish tea party, really? Are you ever serious?" she asks. 

"Not if I can help it," he says, "Did you tell Fen'Harel anything?"

"No. I'm not stupid." Liar, she thinks. Stupid is practically her middle name. She lives it, breathes it, exudes it. 

"Well alright then, I'll just call everyone in and we'll walk arm in arm out the front gate," he says, "He's a liar. You know that. He's not going to spare us."

"Yes, I am well aware of that," she says, "I thought you'd still rather know." 

Perhaps not, she thinks. His expression is stormy but then he sighs and leans forward, his weight on his palms. The map shifts and the table groans just a little, protesting the added pressure.

"Fine, yes, monsters worse than world ending undead magisters---I suppose I would be rather annoyed if you'd held that one back," he says, "You can't trust a liar, even when you think they're telling the truth. Especially when you think they're telling the truth. They'll get you every time."

His shoulders sag and he suddenly looks much older than his years. She feels properly chastised again and doesn't quite know how he managed it. He is barely an authority figure. He is rarely serious. 

But he is right. 

Maybe that's all it takes. 

"Besides, I really don't want to be executed by the Dread Wolf. We're just going to have to take our chances," he continues.

She lets out the breath she hadn't know she was holding. She is relieved and doesn't bother to hide it. She would have gone alone if she had to. Even if it killed her. She is glad she'll have company.

"For what it's worth," she says, and she takes his hand for a moment,"Good luck. Let’s hope you don't need it." 

"Dareth shiral," she says.

And then he does smile. He squeezes her hand before he pulls away. 

"Good luck is always needed, lethallan, " he says, "Dareth shiral."

 

They leave at dawn. Her group is Fenris and Merrill and the Red Jennies. There are thirteen total. Only three have had mage training. 

The Wardens are already gone and the streets are choked with people. Some are already filtering out through the front gate. 

Elvhen soldiers have moved closer to the city. She doesn't see Solas, but she thinks one of them might be Abelas. They are watching the refugees. They are searching every face. 

The joke's on them, she thinks and it almost makes her smile---they're going to end up looking at every, single person before they realize she's not among them. 

 

Fenris stops when the path splits into three. He holds a hand up and looks back at them, his expression severe. 

"Don't touch anything," he says. It comes out a snarl.

There is a faint red crystal jutting out of the dirt, barely there, almost too small to notice. One of the tunnels has collapsed. Not recently enough to be a concern, but only two remain. The lyrium crystal sits almost perfectly between them. 

The wardens have had to alter their route. She can tell by the footprints in the dirt. Both tunnels have been traveled very recently. No matter which path her group takes, they follow in the wardens' wake. If the darkspawn have picked up the trail, they risk intercepting them.

With only thirteen people, she doubts a fight with darkspawn would go terribly well. 

And then there's the lyrium. It's never just one crystal. There will be more. Solas was not lying.

"I wonder what caused this," Merrill says. 

"Bad luck," Loranil says, "Creators, it's always something." And he looks miserable. She knows how he feels because she feels just as bad. Before the Inquisition she spent all her days above ground, always under the stars and never inhaling the stale cave air and dust. Caves and tunnels and the Deep Roads are not meant for people like them. 

"Chin up. my friend," Zevran says, "There's still many, many ways this can get worse. Would you like me to list them? Perhaps alphabetically. Asphyxiation. Burning. Cave in. Darkspawn---"

He yelps when Sera elbows him in the gut.

"You're not as funny as you think," she says, "Shitehead."

He laughs. 

There is no way of telling whether or not the lyrium continues down one of the paths or both or neither. If they're lucky, it continues deep under the ground, but she doubts they will be lucky. They do not have enough to supplies to last them more than a few days. Any deviation from the plan is a deviation they can't afford. 

"My apologies, I am trying to lighten the mood," Zevran says, "And failing, apparently. Perhaps I'm losing my touch."

"Perhaps?"

"I shall just have to try harder," he says, and his grin is suddenly horrifying. Before he can continue, Lavellan cuts him off.

"We continue down our path, then," she says, "If it's impassable, we'll find the wardens. If not, we'll reach the Deep Roads. We can't stop."

Not for long.

Fenris gives her a curt nod and they continue on. None of them are very happy with her. They did not take the news of Solas' nightly visits well and Fenris has been not so silently seething ever since. She should have told them in the beginning.

The tunnel winds around and down until she isn't sure which direction they're facing. She guesses it's about mid-day when they stop again. They only rest for a few minutes.

There is a red glow up ahead, much brighter than before. This time, it is not just one tiny crystal in the dirt. The tunnel is choked with red. Blocked. Impassable. There is a second tunnel, smaller and roughly cut out of the rock, that continues on in the same direction.

The wardens' footprints disappear into the dark.

"This isn't on the map," Loranil says. 

She barely hears him. The sight of the blocked tunnel makes her skin crawl. She has not seen this much red lyrium in one place in a long time. She can't imagine the second tunnel would be clear for very far. It is too close. Much too close.

She wants to back track and take the other path but that would take them much too long. 

"The wardens have gone ahead," Merrill says, "I'm sure if anything's wrong, they'll have cleared it out by the time we reach them." Ever the optimist, Lavellan thinks, and she wishes she could agree.

Solas' words keep coming back to her. _There are powers far greater than Corypheus in this world. And not all of them slumber._

He hadn't lied about the red lyrium.

"At the first sign of trouble, we turn back," Fenris says, "It will cost us time, but it can't be helped."

"I don't like it," Dalish says, "I don't like it at all."

Lavellan agrees.

Her stomach is a mass of knots. Deepstalkers, giant spiders, brontos---there are a number of creatures that could be lying in wait, corrupted, mutated. If they have to fight, the narrow tunnel will make things difficult. 

She does not know how the wardens would be affected by the lyrium or if they would be affected. It's tainted, infected with the blight, she wouldn't be surprised if it interfered with their ability to sense darkspawn. With all this tainted lyrium here, if it doesn't interfere, something could have gone wrong. They could have been ambushed. Killed.

"Trouble will find us whether we seek it out or not," Zevran says, "We can't let the fear of what might lay in wait slow us." 

And then he adds, "It will delay the orgy."

He sidesteps when Sera tries to smack him.

Grumbling not quite under his breath, Fenris ducks his head and leads them into the tunnel.

 

She feels like she's been walking forever---they stop when the tunnel opens up. They do not find more red lyrium and she can't disguise her surprise. 

She sees the smooth stone, hand cut and carefully fitted into place, and ancient dwarven carvings. These aren't the smuggler tunnels under Kirkwall. This is much, much older.

Dwarven stonework is not the only thing she sees. 

Her breath catches. her heart skips a beat.

"Tell me that's not what it looks like," she says. But it is. It is exactly what it looks like. 

There is a body stretched across the road, blood pooling around it. There is another a few feet away and then a third even further out. Before good sense can stop her, she is running towards them. She has to know, has to see---

Someone grabs her arm, hauls her back, and when she looks up Fenris is glaring down. He does not let go right away, not until she steps back.

The first body belongs to a warden. The armor is blue and silver. She can see the emblem emblazoned across the ruined breast plate.

"Kaffas," Fenris says. Of the three bodies, only one of them is wearing the Grey Warden armor. When Fenris finally moves forward, it shakes the rest of them from their stupor.

"Creators, no," Merrill says, but she makes no move. Some of the Jennies cluster together, eyes wide with fear, their breath stilling. She feels much the same. Her own breath strangles in her throat. It's a warden, one of their own, dead. They had all been alive the night before. 

"It's just the one. It's not all of them," Lavellan says, her voice too sharp. But it doesn't make her feel any better. One dead is one too many.

Zevran is the brave one. He turns the second body over and pulls back just as quickly. She can see why. Immediately.

It is a dwarf with red lyrium crystals growing from his chest---his eyes are open, glassy, and the same brilliant red as the crystals. She doesn't know what shocks her more, that he's a dwarf or the lyrium infecting him.

He is a dwarf.

A dwarf.

"This can't be right," Sera says, "That can't be what it looks like. Can't be." Her voice breaks. 

Oh Sera, she thinks, but she's relieved they aren't darkspawn. She's relieved despite the implications. 

The dwarves didn't survive the fall. He shouldn't be here like this. He shouldn't be newly dead. He should be nothing more than bones. Dagna, Lavellan thinks, and Varric. Scout Harding. Cabot. This has to be a fluke. Sera's right. This can't be what it looks like. 

But the third body is a dwarf as well. Same lyrium infection. Same red eyes. Newly dead.

And now she is going to be sick.

"We have to find the rest of the wardens," she says. She doesn't recognize the dead man and she doesn't know which group he belongs to. But Gods she hopes they're alive. 

"I'm not going anywhere till this shite makes sense," Sera says, "Can't be frigging dwarves. How are they dwarves?" And then she's yelling and no one dares to try to stop her because her bow is out, an arrow nocked. She is red faced already. Her face twists with grief.

She does not put the arrow away. She doesn't put away her bow. 

"Perhaps the lyrium," Zevran says, "Perhaps that's how they survived." And his voice is quiet, soothing, and all traces of teasing are gone. But she doubts anyone really believes him. If it was as simple as lyrium, they would have found more than just this. 

"I'm so sorry, Sera," Lavellan says, "We'll try to find out why--how."

She doesn't want to know but they need to know. Red lyrium infecting dwarves. Dwarves still alive when they should be dead. One dead warden. It's all too much.

Sera takes a breath but doesn't look any calmer. 

"The bodies are still warm," Zevran says, "We might be able to catch them if we hurry."

"Oh, Creators, I don't like this," Merrill says. No one looks terribly enthused. 

"Blood trail's still wet," Skinner says. She kneels beside Zevran for a moment. The blood follows the road.

It's too quiet. If they're close, there should be sounds of clashing swords and shouting, there should be explosions of mage fire and lightning, and there should be the footsteps. She doesn't hear fighting.

Unless they're all dead, she thinks, unless one side has already dealt with the other. 

Oh Gods.

It hurts to breathe. 

"Fasta vass," Fenris says, "Kaffas." His gaze sweeps over the group before he turns back towards the bodies and the road and the blood. The breath he draws is ragged.

"Stay close," he says.


	30. What He Did in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does not want to see this.

It is not really a thaig. It is only vaguely dwarven. It is not really a temple. It is only vaguely elvhen. The statues are too stocky but somehow also too lithe and too willowy. It is a chaotic mix of impossible sights. It is two things and it is nothing. 

The ruin is choked with red lyrium. And of course, the blood trail leads right in through the doors. The silence is eerie. 

She sees June's symbols etched in the stone and it makes her blood run cold.

"The wardens wouldn't go in there, would they?" Loranil asks, "Tell me we're not going in there."

Merrill runs her fingers over some of the carvings, her face a mask of shock and awe.

"You see this too," she says, "I'm not imagining---it says June. That's Elvhen. But not. This is real, isn't it?"

"It's real," Dalish says, but unlike Merrill, she hangs back. An elvhen ruin in the Deep Roads isn't unheard of, but the very clear melding of dwarven and elvhen architecture is. Solas would know what it means. He'd know why June's followers would settle this deep underground.

Or maybe he already knows.

"Clearly you have not met our dear wardens," Zevran says, "Because this is exactly the kind of place they would go. Willingly. And often. Mahariel would bring back souvenirs." She believes him. 

"But we're not wardens. We're not going in after them, are we?" Loranil asks.

"We should not," Fenris says, but he doesn't move. 

And where would they go? The tunnel that should have lead them out is blocked. They have no way of knowing if the other path is clear and they have no way of knowing if Solas' elvhen forces have found the tunnels. They can't even be sure if this road will lead them to a tunnel that reaches the surface.

The wardens have found trouble. She doesn't want to leave them.

The ruin is a horrifying, amazing find. If not for the lyrium, she wouldn't want to leave. She'd want to map every corner of it.

Sera makes the decision for them. 

"Don't be a baby," she says, "You get all teary eyed at weird elvhen shite, but you can throw bombs at the Dread Wolf's stupid castle like it's pies? We're not leaving til I get one of 'em by the short bits."

"For Widdle, yeah," she adds, face red again, voice rough. Her gaze flicks to first Lavellan and then Fenris, daring them to argue. But how can they? If the wardens are in trouble, they have to investigate. If there are dwarves that survived the fall, they have to investigate. If there's a dangerous force spreading red lyrium throughout the Deep Roads, they have to investigate.

She does not have the anchor, and the Inquisition is dead, but she is still here. Some part of her is still the Inquisitor. 

"I'm with you, Sera," she says. She doesn't have many friends left. Any at all really. Just Sera. And maybe somewhere Cole. She won't stay back while she gets herself killed.

"If any of you want to turn back," she continues, "Now is the time, but I'm going forward. I won't think any less of you."

Fenris looks like he wants to argue but doesn't. He steels himself, stiffens his back and squares his shoulders. No one else moves. No one else speaks.

A temple dedicated to June will have traps and impossible puzzles. Some will likely be more dwarven than elvhen, the solution harder to find---if the wardens haven't already activated the temple defenses. She hopes the temple guardians are long gone or dead. She hopes they aren't the red lyrium dwarves that killed that warden.

She hopes but she has her doubts.

They don't have a Morrigan or a Solas to walk them through this. They have a Merrill and she just might be too starry eyed to be much help.

Zevran is grinning again. She wonders how he can smile at a time like this, but then decides it's better not to know.

"So it's settled," he says, "First, find the wardens, then start the orgy. I can live with that. But I'm not sure where I put the massage oil or the ball gags. Do you think Mahariel took the wrong bags again?"

"You are officially uninvited from the orgy," Lavellan says, and she ignores his sounds of feigned disappointment, "Let's move out."

 

There is more blood inside and another dead dwarf. It is still much too quiet.

The room is grand with high vaulted ceilings and more of the odd dwarven/elvhen statues in the corners. The tiled floor is a dull yellow, not unlike the floors in Mythal's temple, but the walls----the walls are a single, unbroken mosaic of what looks like June in the Deep Roads. There are blues and greens and golds, many shades of the three colors. 

Blue for lyrium and blue for the eyes of all the dwarves. Blue for the literal heart at the center of the mosaic. Blue for the heart of a titan, she realizes, and she remembers when she saw one for herself. In person. It was protected by a guardian that nearly killed them. 

"I am not sure we want to know what June was doing here," she says.

"I've never heard any stories," Dalish says, "Come to think of it, we never really spoke much about June. It was more Andruil and Falon'din and Mythal. And Sylaise---she was a favorite. Or Ghilan'nain."

"What, not Dirthamen?" Merrill asks, "I always thought he was interesting. I like the story of his ravens."

"Right, elfy elves again," Sera says, "Can we get back to it?"

Merrill stares at the walls, her eyes narrowing---Lavellan can almost see her thinking, piecing it all together.

"June took dwarven followers," Merrill says, "Slaves? No vallaslin, though. And why are their eyes all so blue? It seems significant." 

"The Sha-Brytol," Lavellan says, "We fought them before. They are dedicated to protecting these beings called titans---probably the basis for the Stone in dwarven legends, but I can't imagine they'd deal with top-siders. " If they were slaves, he had another way to mark them. If they are the Sha-Brytol, he found a way to control them through the titan.

And now they are corrupted by the red lyrium.

No. 

Just, no. She is jumping to conclusions. All of this is insane.

"They should not be this close to the surface," she adds as an afterthought, "If they really are the Sha-Brytol." 

Some of the magic in her prosthetic belongs to June. His markings, along with Ghilan'nain's, are on the narrow band around her upper arm. That sick feeling is back.

"I think, if there is a titan here, it kept them alive," Dalish says, "It almost makes a certain kind of sense."

"So Widdle would have had to be one of those mindless creepy things," Sera says, "Nope. No good. Don't feel any better."

"Did you really expect to?" Fenris asks and he leans on his sword. 

"Dunno," she says, "Maybe."

"You are not this stupid," he says. She feels the sting and he's not even talking to her. If they were her people, if he was Vivienne or Dorian or Varric or anyone else, she would have stopped him. But he is not and she doesn't have the right to intervene. It is not her place. 

She doesn't know if Sera would even want her to. 

"Didn't ask you, now did I? Don't want your opinion. Don't need it," Sera says. The muscle in her jaw goes tense and she doesn't look at him.

"You can not make sense of a senseless act," he continues, "It will never feel better. They are gone and we will live forever until someone kills us, but we will not be reunited. There will be no peace."

"He did this," he continues, "If you need answers, you'll find them when the last drop of his blood leaves his body and his eyes close forever."

Her throat goes dry and the silence cuts like a knife. The pain on his face is raw. It is savage. She can't help but feel it and she is glad she didn't interfere. It would not have gone well. 

Hawke's death left a hole that can't be mended. 

"I fucking hate you right now," Sera says.

"I don't fucking care," he says, and his grief slips back behind the mask, his rage, "We can't linger here. We move now, we find the wardens, and we leave. We risk too much if we stay."

For the longest time no one speaks, then, when he moves, they follow. 

 

There is another body at the bottom of the stairs. And another.

Both are wardens.

It does not bode well. 

The hallway is red with blood and lyrium. And it is not silent---she hears muffled footsteps, she hears a thrumming like the rush of blood in her ears but louder, fuller. It pulses just beyond the hall, behind the tall doors. 

She grips her staff and tries to quell her fears. They have faced worse dangers than the Sha-Brytol and with less people. And she has heard the stories of Fenris from the Jennies. She has heard the way he decimated entire Elvhen patrols alone. 

Their chances are good with him here. He is their ace. He is their heavy weapon. 

She doesn't mean to walk beside him, but she finds herself there all the same. Loranil falls behind her and puts himself beside Merrill. Skinner joins Zevran and Dalish joins Sera. The rest of the Jennies stick to the middle. Archers slightly toward the back, swords more to the front, and mages wherever they find the room.

Fenris braces his hands on the doors and then pushes them open. She doesn't know what to expect but when she sees it, she knows it isn't this.

It's the heart of a titan, red instead of blue. It beats, but it is sluggish, bloated, and misshapen.

She thinks she hears someone call out, "Inquisitor! " and then hears a hiss of pain. 

The missing wardens are here but so are the Sha-Brytol. Some are dead, some are on their knees with a blade to their throat, and the rest seem entranced by the corrupted heart. They stare up at it, their eyes glassy and blank.

The heart moves. Something pushes out from the center. It extends and uncurls like a worm in an apple, but this is no worm.

It is a body, as misshapen and corrupted as the heart, but tall, so very tall. 

This is no dwarf. 

Whatever skin it once had was gone. There is nothing left but crystal and when it turns she realizes there is the impression of a face. There are blackened, empty sockets for eyes and a jagged tear where a mouth could have been. The nose is an upside down heart shape, it is skeletal, it is dead. 

She does not know what this thing is but she knows if it touches her she is going to scream. She will scream until her throat bleeds. 

When it looks at them, the Sha-Brytol and the enthralled Wardens do the same---they turn in unison. They are silent. They are horrifying. If she makes it out alive, she will never forget the sight of them all, their empty stares, the red light on their faces. 

The few wardens who aren't entranced struggle against their captors---but they are in the minority. She counts four, maybe five.

The lyrium monster's voice is thready and hard to understand but when it speaks she hears Elvhen syllables. More unfamiliar words. The Sha-Brytol should not understand, but somehow, they do. Those who haven't already drawn their swords, draw them. 

"Oh my," Merrill says, "This is---I think this is a priest." An immortal woken from uthenera to this? Corrupted while sleeping?

"Was a priest," Dalish says, "It's a monster now."

The monster repeats its commands, and when it's clear they can't understand it switches to something that sounds dwarven, also mostly unfamiliar. There is anger in its voice, intense, savage anger.

The titan's heart stutters every third beat. 

"I don't suppose you'll give our wardens back," Lavellan says. Why is she talking? She hears her voice but she can't turn it off.

The monster responds in Elvhen again.

They need Solas for that or Abelas or any member of his stupid ancient army. They would be able to translate. They would understand what it wants.

"Stop---something," Merrill says, "Sounds like guides the path. May you learn. Red. Something red. Ir abelas. We can't understand you."

There is one thing Lavellan recognizes.

"Na di'nan sahlin," it says, now you die. 

The Sha-Brytol and the entranced wardens attack. how is it controlling them? Through the taint? They are n ot infected with red lyrium. It's only the blight. 

Lavellan slams her staff down---a wall of fire bursts up from the ground, blocking their advance. The first warriors to make it through are met with Fenris' sword. He cuts through the exposed flesh of their necks.

"Not the wardens. We can't hurt them," Merrill says, "He's controlling them---the wardens can't stop." She traps as many as she can in thorny vines. 

"Vishante kaffas, we can't hold back," Fenris says. Dalish hits them with a barrier spell while Sera and the other archers pick off the unfortunate Sha-Brytol warriors who were unable to evade Merrill's vines. The wardens struggle. They tear their skin on the thorns. 

"Do you want to be the one to explain to Mahariel why half his company is gone?" Dalish asks.

"He'll understand," he snaps.

"Will he?" Dalish asks. But he probably will. They all knew the risks of traveling the Deep Roads. Though no one could have anticipated this. Well, one person, maybe, but he isn't here. He is sitting in his pretty pavilion while his people burn Kirkwall. She is not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right. 

Lavellan hits the creature with immolate, but it doesn't react. She sets a fire mine down under it. Still nothing. She must be hurting it a little. She knows this. But she isn't. It doesn't seem to feel anything. 

Wintersbreath does not like her fire magic, she realizes. It pulls a lttle every time she casts---the heat is not as strong as it should be. She wonders if that's part of the problem. Maybe if she was better with ice. Maybe.

But she was fire and Dorian was fire. Solas was ice. Vivienne was lightning. It was Solas and Dorian who dabbled in spirit magic. They kept the barriers up while she and Vivienne bought them time. Gods what she wouldn't have done to have them all here now. 

Solas to freeze the creature and Vivienne to shatter it with her spirit blade. Dorian to protect with barriers. And when fire magic failed, her rift magic would pick up the slack. Her other spells won't do enough damage against a thing that crawled out of a corrupted titan's heart.

The air rushes at her and when she turns, there is a sword centimeters from her chest. Fenris' fist is jutting out of a warrior's chest. He looks at her, almost smiles, and that's when it all goes wrong. 

His eyes go wide and he jerks his fist out. His tattoos are too bright and he drops his sword. He doubles over. He stumbles. He falls to his knees. He screams.

"What's wrong?" she asks and then she realizes she's shouting. For one terrible moment she thinks his tattoos might be turning red, but they aren't. It's just the glow of the titan's heart and the lyrium. He saved her and now he's paying for it. This is wrong.

Her fault. Her fault.

Why did he do that?

"Get him out of the way," she says, her throat suddenly too tight,"To the back! Now! To the back!" The creature is doing something to the lyrium in his body. It's hurting him. Fighting for control, she thinks. 

It takes three of them to pull him and his ridiculous sword back and Loranil steps into his place. 

"Get another barrier around him," she says to Dalish. Why did he have to help her? Stupid, stupid man, she thinks. 

Merrill pulls more vines from the earth and then falls back.

"Let me help," she says, "I know a bit of healing magic. Fenris, look at me. Try---"

"No blood magic," he spits out.

"I wouldn't. I promise," she tries. But he is screaming again. 

Lavellan tunes the rest of it out when her fire wall dies. The wardens' movements are jerky and stiff and Merrill was right. They are being controlled but poorly. The few who aren't entranced are still on their knees with blades against their throats. She wonders why they haven't been killed.

If she didn't know better she'd swear the creature was laughing at them. Why? What did it want?

Her arm suddenly feels like it's burning up. Not the pain from another episode---this is different. It shoots up her shoulder, her neck, digs deep into her head. The green light flickers red. It makes her muscles seize up and she almost drops her staff.

And she is furious.

"No, you don't," she says. She has not used Stonefist or Veilstrike since she the Veil fell. She didn't want to risk reaching for that magic and finding nothing there. She couldn't bear it if it didn't answer. And she has not used Pull of the Abyss or Firestorm since she lost the anchor.

But when the creature tries to take control she lashes out---it is instinctive, it is almost muscle memory. 

She lays down Pull of the Abyss and then Veilstrike and it is different than she remembers. It doesn't just drag her enemies back it pulls them with a force that knocks them to their knees. When she hits them with Veilstrike, it doesn't just hit them. It shatters pieces of the creature. It cracks the lyrium.

Her stomach twists. 

"What the friggin shite was that?" Sera shouts, "Fuck it, don't care. Do it again."

"I need ice," Lavellan says, "Dalish, Merrill, anyone---"

But Merrill is trying to stabilize Fenris. She's fighting the creatures magic and from the sweat on her brow she is probably failing. Dalish is on her feet but she looks just as worried. She pushes to the front to stand beside Loranil. 

"Don't expect much," she says. Loranil knocks another warrior of their feet and buries his sword in their throat.

Dalish hits the creature with Winter's grasp. It's just the basic level--it slows the creature but doesn't stop it. Not even for a second. 

It is not going to work, she thinks.

But when she hits it with Veilstrike again, it screams. It's arm breaks off and shatters when it hits the ground. The floor is choked with red crystals and dust and tainted blood.

The Sha-Brytol holding the other wardens slump, they lower their swords, and they stumble a bit. It's not much but it's enough for the wardens to get to their feet. They knock the swords out of their hands and finish them off.

And then they join the fight.

There is another mage, she realizes when more vines wrap around the entranced wardens. Merrill is still struggling. She hasn't had time to cast. Another Dalish keeper, she thinks, unfamiliar, very blond, very angry.

"Stop wasting your mana on that thing and attack the heart," the woman shouts. She's pleasant, Lavellan thinks.

"You couldn't have said something sooner?" Sera asks as she fires a volley into it. 

"Stop. Talking," the woman shouts back. And then she blankets the room in ice.

Lavellan doesn't know the spell, doesn't care to know, because all that matters is how the titan's heart frosts over and the creature slows. This is it, she thinks, and she hits the heart first with stonefist.

When she summons firestorm, though, that's when the heart cracks open. Tainted lyrium oozes out, spills onto the floor and seeps down through the cracks. The light dims. The heart shrivels, blackens. It dies.

The Sha-Brytol die. 

The creature screams. It claws at the air, the ground, reaching for them as the life leaves its body. It is dead and the silence is thick. 

The air is choked with the stench of blood and smoke and lyrium. 

The entranced wardens stop fighting. 

They look confused, dazed---some of them vomit. Some of them collapse. And thankfully, Fenris finally stops screaming. He looks like he's going to be ok, but she can't stop the guilt from clawing it's way into her. She should have been paying better attention. he shouldn't have had to save her. 

This won't happen again.

"Well that could have gone better," the warden mage says. 

"Yeah, you're welcome," Sera says.

Lavellan doesn't know why that makes her laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me a bit.


	31. Under the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't know.

The creature just sort of disintegrates and then so does the heart. A thin, powdery ash dusts the tile where they were.

We killed a titan, she thinks, and even though it was corrupted, it's like they destroyed something rare and wonderful and she's a little ashamed. She should not feel this way. She knows it.

But she does.

Under the ash and dirt and lyrium fragments, it's tiled with smooth grey marble. More of the unfamiliar elvhen symbols are carved into each one. The place where the titan's heart sat does not connect to the earth. 

Perhaps we didn't kill it after all, she thinks, perhaps it was already dead and the heart was just an echo. They severed and preserved it. They kept it beating somehow, for whatever purpose, but it was just mindless tool. A once great and powerful being reduced to nothing, not really alive, not really anything.

A renewed sense of horror settles over her. 

A quarter of the wardens are dead.

"This temple isn't on our maps," the Grey Warden mage says. Her name is Velanna and she is not terribly interested in small talk.

Or any talk at all really.

"We need to find out what happened. If the wardens can be controlled like that---" Lavellan says. It is Corypheus all over again. She has a flash of the temple of Mythal when he died and took a warden's essence to reconstitute himself. 

"I don't know what happened," Velanna snaps, "I'd rather not think about it until we're topside again." When the wardens were ambushed, it did not happen immediately, but they slowly started to lose control. Velanna doesn't know why and she glares at Lavellan when she pushes for more. 

"We've lost too much time already," she continues.

Lavellan expects Fenris to chime in but he doesn't. He sits with his back to the wall and shuts his eyes. When he does shift or move or breathe, he seems pained. And he is not the only one. The surviving wardens all seem a little worse for wear.

"We can't leave just now," Merrill insists.

But they have to. 

"No," she says, her voice sharp, "The wardens need rest. Fenris needs rest. We won't get far at all if we leave now and it won't be safe." And she is right. 

"It isn't safe now," Velanna insists, but Lavellan reads a flicker of doubt on her face. 

"We can see how things are in an hour," Lavellan says.

But the thought of staying here for any amount of time has lost its appeal. Merrill does not look appeased and neither does Velanna but the wardens sit and shut their eyes and seem to doze. How they can sleep in a place that's littered with corpses, some belonging to their own people, is beyond her.

There is a faint thrumming of power coming from the center of the room. It is possibly residual energy leftover from whatever spell June's priest used to sustain the heart. The center most tile is black with an elaborate swirling pattern carved into the surface. It looks a little like obsidian. It shines.

She sees the glint of it through the ash, and it is suddenly all she can think about. There is a nagging at the back of her mind, spurring her toward it. She wants nothing more than to touch it, pull it up, turn it over and over in her hands until she understands it. 

"What is this?" she asks, and she knows she should stop herself. 

The pattern is not quite familiar, but the only thing similar that springs to mind is Fen'Harel's foci---and that is not what this is. It is dull by comparison. 

She wipes some of the debris away as she kneels beside it. 

"Merrill, come look at this," she says.

The residual energy is strongest here. She feels it when she brushes the surface with her fingertips. She feels a spark.

"What did you find?" Merrill asks, almost tripping over herself. 

"I don't know yet," she says, and it moves a little when she tries to get her fingers under it. She doesn't let herself dwell on whether this is a good idea or not. She pushes those doubts aside. She pulls.

She uses both hands, digging under it with her prosthetic fingers and that's when it comes loose. She sits back on her rear with a force that leaves her a red faced with embarrassment. But no one laughs. No one even notices but Merrill.

She helps her up, too eager to get a better look.

When Lavellan turns the tile over in her hands, there is a flash of silvery light and it breaks. Her hand tingles. Not the hand that's made of flesh and bone.

The prosthetic hand. Right where the anchor would have been. 

She stares at it until the feeling fades and doesn't know if she should say anything. She doesn't know if she can even find the words. Whatever that was, it was the source of the residual spell energy.

What did it do to her?

She does not feel any different, but the tile seems smaller somehow. She doesn't feel the same compulsion to touch it or turn it over or understand it.

Merrill is staring at her with eyes too wide.

"What was that?" she asks.

Lavellan looks around but Merrill is the only one who noticed. Velanna is still studying the maps. The wardens are still dozing. Fenris is dozing. And the rest are patching up injuries and resting. 

"I don't know," she says, "I felt---something."

"What was it? Heat? Pain?" Merrill asks, "You don't look any different." But she looks worried. Very, very worried.

"It isn't what corrupted the dwarves, do you think?" she continues. Lavellan hopes not. She doesn't think it is, but she is no expert on ancient elvhen magic. 

"Residual energy," she says at last, that reacted to June's magic in her arm? Maybe. Merrill does not look convinced. She takes the broken pieces of the tile and turns them over in her hands. She holds them up to a light. 

"I don't sense anything," Merrill says at last, "Whatever it was, it's gone now." She tucks the pieces into the pouch secured to her belt.

 

Velanna says a few words for the fallen before they leave. No one is really ready, but a sense of urgency has settled over them. The longer they stay, the worse it gets. They have to go. They have to find a way out.

And so they leave. Their pace is excruciatingly slow.

She is hit with the familiar spike of pain not long after they lose sight of the temple. It's worse this time. It's more intense. It burns hotter.

And it doesn't stop. 

After a moment, her knees give out and she stumbles. Her vision fades to white. She feels like she's slipping out of her body. All her sense are blotted out, turned off---it's like being dropped in dark water. There is nothing but a dull ache in her chest as she fights for breath.

When she comes to, it isn't just her arm that hurts, it's every part of her. 

She is flat on her back on the ground at the center of a very wide circle of wary faces. Merrill is crouched at the edge, not close enough to touch her but closer than the others. 

When she tries to sit up, it takes a while and she as ungraceful as a person can be. She is glad no one moves to help her.

She pushes herself up and something slips down her arm. It is the narrow band. It is cracked. It breaks apart. 

Her prosthetic isn't glowing.

She can feel the stone under her palm. 

Her hand and her arm is flesh and blood and bone.

"Do us all a favor," Sera says, not quite scowling, "Next time someone gives you an elfy artifact, how about you don't put it on?"

She flexes her fingers and it is strange to feel again. Her palm is not the same as it was---there is a wide, white scar where the anchor was. Is, she corrects herself, because there is something there, just under the skin. 

It is not the same. She doesn't feel the endless crackling and burning of raw power. It is a low pulse instead. It is muted. Almost soft. 

Bearable. 

The rest of her skin is unblemished. Her scars are absent and her moles. If she wants to be honest, she'd admit it doesn't really look like her arm, but she does not feel like being that honest. 

It should not have regenerated completely this quickly. A few inches at a time. Not the whole thing. 

Whatever she absorbed from that tile, it is responsible somehow.

"Are you quite done?" Velanna asks, her tone curt. She looks impatient. Bored. Thoroughly annoyed. 

Her chest still aches and her breath is sluggish, but she nods. Merrill drags her to her feet. She still looks like she's a little afraid to touch her. 

"Then what are we waiting around for? Let's go. We have a lot of ground to cover," Velanna says, and she mutters something under her breath---Lavellan can't make it out, she's too quiet. She gets the gist of it, though. 

She feels suitably chastised and Velanna hasn't even given her a proper lecture.

 

It takes two days to find their way out of the Deep Roads. They do not see any more dwarves and they do not see any darkspawn. They are hungry and tired and if she has to listen to another argument between Sera and Velanna she's setting them both on fire.

The tunnel leads them out in Vimmark mountains. Not Sundermount but close enough.

She sees Kirkwall far in the distance, or rather, she sees where it's supposed to be. It isn't just burned. It's a smoking crater.

There is nothing left.

She does not see Fen'Harel's army.

"If Mahariel makes it out, there's a place---he'll wait for us," Velanna says. When it looks like she's going to say more, Fenris cuts her off.

"We discussed it," he says, and he sounds damn near ready to drop. He gives Velanna a Look and Lavellan is suddenly very annoyed. It's as if she hasn't proven herself. As if she can't be trusted with the information. 

Well.

Maybe she can't.

She did hold back information. She didn't tell them about Solas and the dreams. Perhaps she should accept this as a consequence. 

She chokes down her irritation. 

They make camp.


	32. By The Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows better than this.

He doesn't find her in the Fade until they leave the Vimmark mountains. 

"Where are you, vhenan?" he asks.

He doesn't wait for an answer. His tongue delves into her mouth when she parts her lips. His hands slide up her sides. His fingers skim the curves of her breasts and it feels like she's wearing nothing at all.

This should not be happening, she thinks. She should stop it.

But she doesn't. 

There is something wild about him tonight. Hungry. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes almost look black. The blue is just a thin ring.

Her back is suddenly against a wall and he's hooking her leg up, around his waist. She isn't wearing anything under her dress and she doesn't know how that happened. All of this is very strange.

"Solas?" she asks, but he cuts her off with another kiss. 

She slips an arm around his shoulders and hauls herself up, wrapping the other leg around him. He is hard between them and she has missed this. He does something. She sees a flicker in his eyes and her dress melts away. They are both naked, skin to skin. 

This is a terrible idea, she thinks. 

Shut up, she thinks.

He guides himself inside her, and there is nothing else in the world but him and this and how good it feels. She rocks as best she can, but it is difficult against the wall. It is hard to gain any kind of traction. 

She breathes against his throat. She licks a trail along the length of it. She drags herself up, only stopping to trouble the spot just behind his jaw. He groans, shudders, holds her still.

What is she thinking? She isn't. That much is clear. Why isn't she thinking? 

Her breath hitches when the world shifts. The wall is now the floor. He snaps his hips and when he repeats the motion, the force of it makes her slide. Harder, she thinks. Harder still. But it is not enough. She feels half starved. She feels just as wild as he is. 

They have barely begun and she is tingling. Tingling. Actually. Literally. It should not feel this good, she thinks.

When he slips a hand between them to find her clit, she sees sparks behind her eyes. She clenches down, feels him tense, straining to slow down---make it last. But she doesn't want to slow down. She needs frantic. She needs rough. 

He makes her shiver when he nips her ear, when he breathes heavy against her throat---almost touching. Teasing. His lips so close to her skin, if she tilts just a little---

"Vhenan," he whispers. 

She is close when he stops. He angles her hips just a little, just enough to send her over the edge with the next thrust. His pace quickens and all at once he's coming, spilling inside her. She is still gripping him, contracting around him, the edges of her vision fuzzy. 

He sinks down, still inside her, still hard enough. He rocks once, twice, but they are both spent. He softens, slips out, and they lay tangled together on the floor. For what feels like forever, all they can do is just lay there, breathing. She runs her hands across his shoulders, down his back. She touches every part of him she can reach.

And then she looks at him. Really looks. 

She does not know what to think about what she sees. It is a hard thing to pinpoint. He is brighter, but his edges are darker, thick with magic. There is more of him again. Or still.

"You seem different," she says. She feels a frisson of fear. 

He nuzzles her cheek, kisses a path just under her eye.

"It has been a trying week," he says, "We can't find you." He kisses her nose.

But that's not going to work this time. She tries to prop herself up on her elbows, but he won't move. He slides his fingers through her hair and bites her neck. 

"No. Something's different. What is it?" she asks. It is important somehow. 

"I could ask the same of you, ma sa'lath," he says and he leans back just enough to catch her wrist. He runs his thumb along the pale scar and then presses it to his lips.

It is a difficult thing to remember to breathe. He is already stiffening and it is distracting, pressed against her like that. 

"My arm," she says, "That thing worked."

"That's not it at all," he whispers, "You're brighter now."

"You're one to talk." And she does not want to know what he means. 

He smiles. It seems he holds back a laugh.

"It is unimportant."

"It's very important," she says.

"Come home and I'll tell you," he says. She doesn't stop him when he reaches down, when eases himself back inside. And when he moves it is almost painfully slow. As if they have forever. 

"Solas," she breathes. She arches up to meet him. 

"Where are you?" he whispers. 

When she jolts awake, Fenris is glaring at her from across the cold fire pit.


	33. This Divide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are thwarted again.

"What did he say?" Fenris asks and he is not quiet. Some of the wardens look at her. Some wake up, groggy, hands going to their swords. Sera makes an angry sound and rolls over onto her face. 

The heat on her cheeks makes her glad it's still night. She shifts, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"More of the same," she says, "Where are you? Nothing interesting."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," she says. Always nothing.

It is clear he doesn't believe her. She doesn't like the cold smirk on his face. She doesn't know what it means.

"Of course, you didn't," he says. And now she knows because he has a Tone. Of course, you didn't, ok. Ok. 

Ass.

"I don't want to go back, why would I tell him where we are?" she asks. It comes out a bit more snappish than she intends, but she is frustrated.

"I don't presume to know why you do anything," he says.

She wants to kick him, but that would be bad, wouldn't it? And she would have to get up. 

Sera makes another unintelligible noise. She wrestles her bedroll sideways---just enough so she can get a corner of it over her head. She presses it against her ears.

"You haven't asked where we're going," he continues. And he is still too loud. As if he wants everyone to hear him. 

"I don't care where we're going," she says, and that much is true. She is curious but she doesn't need to know yet. If something goes wrong, it is better for her not to know. Then she won't take the blame.

His smile is still not a nice one. 

'You care," he says, "Need I remind you what will happen if you do pass information along? You may have won Mahariel over but he would welcome a darkspawn into our midst if it spoke common."

For fuck's sake, she thinks. 

"Clearly you think I'm in league with Solas," she continues, "You had a perfect opportunity to let me die. Why didn't you?"

"You think I'm stupid." She hasn't decided yet. Perhaps a little. Perhaps a lot. A man with lyrium in his skin who puts his fist through the chest of a red lyrium dwarf is not making great strides towards sanity. He is lucky he wasn't infected. He could have been. 

He would have been if he wasn't quite so lucky.

"I think you're angry," she says, "And I think I'm a convenient target."

Her patience is waning.

"What do you think would have happened if I had let you die?" he asks, "What do you think the Dread Wolf would have done to my people? Do you think he would have been content to mourn and leave us be? You are a fool if you believe that. There was no choice."

He is right, and though she hates to admit it, the reason stings. She wants to be one of them, wants to have a place among them. She doesn't just want to be that person they have to keep alive until she's useful.

She is not a person to the Elvhen and she is a burden to the Elves. She will not lie to herself and pretend Fenris is the only one who looks at her like this. 

"Well then," she says, "There is nothing more to say." Sleep has lost its appeal. She should try but she will not. Solas will find her again. And she does not feel like waking up to another Fenris pep talk. 

"I am not going back," she says, "And if you do change your mind and try to barter me back to him, I will make sure you regret it." Not the people, she couldn't, but Fenris she could, personally. She would not take pleasure in it, but she would make sure he felt it. 

"Shut up already, both of you---some of us are trying to sleep." 

Sera hrows her boots, both of them. Lavellan ducks as one comes eerily close to her head. Eerie because Sera isn't even looking. The other smacks Fenris soundly on the shoulder. He picks it up and throws it back.

Sera yelps. 

 

They avoid Cumberland and everything near the coast. They travel north west, roughly toward Nevarra City and Hunter Fell. But there is probably a smaller camp, something a little more easily overlooked, something tucked out of sight. She doubts they would settle in another city. 

There are not nearly as many patrols as there had been.

Solas visits almost every night. He is smug. He is elated. He is much too pleased for someone who keeps failing to catch her.

He is up to something.

Supplies are running dangerously low.

 

When she see smoke in the distance, she thinks there must be a campfire. When they crest the hill, they see the lonely Nevarran banner, fluttering in the breeze. Just beyond is Nevarra City, she realizes.

It is a little strange they would be camped outside when the city is right there.

Perhaps they haven't had time to bury the dead, she thinks. A city as big as this would take a very long time and they are not over flowing with volunteers.

Velanna hisses. She drops low to the ground. There is a ripple as the wardens follow. 

"Those aren't our people," she says, "Get down." The Jennies don't hesitate. They drop. 

The tents are unmarked and there are no flags, no banners under than the one. Most of the people are not wearing armor. They are dressed in plain clothes, leather and wool. They are cooking. They are bustling around the camp. They are doing things she would expect ordinary people to be doing.

They are all armed. 

"How can you tell?" she asks.

"Not now. Quiet. We have a code," Velanna says, "You don't need to know it." She bites her lip to keep from responding. 

"You're right," Fenris says, "That is not Mahariel's camp."

"Of course, I'm right, don't sound so surprised," Velanna says and he bristles.

Where is Mahariel then? Who are they?

But she knows who they are. This is why he's been so smug. He found one of their camps. Possibly Mahariel himself. Possibly. She hopes not. She doesn't know what he'd do with him if he did catch him.

There could be prisoners. They aren't equipped to rescue them if there are.

Fenris shoots her a glare. It is far too accusing and she has done nothing to earn it this time.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, "You didn't tell me anything. I couldn't have passed information on even if I wanted to."

"We'll just go 'round," Sera says. Because, obviously they can't stay crouched in the grass. 

Someone could easily spot them. They may already have and are quietly sending a signal around the camp. She is afraid, angry too, but mostly just afraid. The soldiers are too close and they have no real protection.

There are too many to fight.

It is slow going but the Wardens and the Jennies make their way back down the hill. It is tense and quiet and each second that passes the feeling only gets worse. It is a miracle, she thinks, when they aren't spotted. 

She is not usually this lucky.

"There's too many of us," Velanna says when they have a moment to breathe, "We'll split up. It'll be easier to stay hidden."

She is right. But no one is terribly pleased with the idea. 

"Wardens, we'll take the long way around," she continues. the look she levels at the group silences any and all protests. 

"You know where to go?" Velanna asks Fenris.

"Of course, I do," he says. He is scowling and she is scowling, but they leave it at that. 

When they part ways, Fenris leads them west.

 

She is glad she doesn't know for certain where they're going. Solas is not as smug as he was the night before. He twists the Fade, leaves them standing on the unfamiliar balcony of an unfamiliar house. 

There is a golden city far, far in the distance. It shimmers in the sunlight. 

He is wearing red and white robes with shimmering threads embroidering delicate pictures in the silk of the cuffs. She is wearing the same robes she wears in the waking world. They are dirty and worn---torn in places where the fabric has rubbed too thin and the thread has frayed. She is barely presentable, but he has seen her in a far worse state.

"I thought, now that Kirkwall is taken care of," he says, "We can stop this foolish chase."

She fakes a smile. The sex had been a mistake. She will be paying for it for a while. 

"That would be nice," she says, but she knows, they both know, they don't mean the same thing.

"Tell me about your...friends," he says.

"You know Sera," she says.

"Not Sera," he says, "The others in your group, this White Wolf I've heard so much of, the Grey Wardens---" And the way he says Grey Wardens reminds her of the time she caught him drinking tea and grimacing.

"Leave them alone," she says.

"When they stop attacking my patrols, I will be glad to," he says, "There are so few of us left, we should strive to work together, don't you think?" now he cares?

"How does one put aside their anger to work with the man who destroyed the world?" she asks, "I'm sure they'll be agreeable when they have the answer."

She doubts the two groups will be able to politely ignore each other. Working together is a pretty dream.

"Vhenan," he says.

And he sighs.

"Your people still don't see us as people," she continues, "You know that, don't you?"

"They will learn as I did," he says. 

She laughs. A lot of good it did any of them. They were people and he still killed them. Maybe he should have continued to insist they were not people. Maybe it would be easier to accept him now. The change would seem more genuine.

"I want to help them," he says, "Let me help them."

She is taken aback for a moment. She reads sincerity on his face. It is clear and strong and real. And then he ruins it.

"Where are you?" he asks.

The spark of hope snuffs out. 

"What happened to stopping this foolish chase?" she asks.

"It will stop and you will come home," he says, "And we will rebuild the world."

She is not impressed.

"And you were doing so well," she says, "I am not coming home. At this rate, it is unlikely I will ever, willingly, go back with you. The more you chase, the less enthused I am."

"I miss the man who asked me what I wanted and listened," she says, "Stop telling me what to do."

"Stop making terrible decisions," he counters.

"You were wrong about them. They didn't use me or hurt me. They helped me," she says, "And they continue to do so. They even saved my life a time or two."

It is the wrong thing to say. She sees it on his face. 

"What?" he asks, "What did you say?"

She steps back and she feels the rail press against her. The damn balcony, she thinks, and she wishes she'd kept her back to the door instead.

"It's nothing," she says, "There was a bit of a fight. I was careless. Fenris stopped a blade---"

"Who tried to kill you?" he asks. He demands. His face is red as he grabs her arm, keeps her from pushing past him. 

She doesn't want to tell him. it doesn't even matter because the warrior is dead, but still.

"Sha-Brytol," she says, "They were infected with red lyrium. It was nothing. We handled it just fine."

He is squeezing her arm too hard. He does not let go when she pulls. 

"It was not nothing. You went into the Deep Roads. What were you thinking?" he asks. And she's struck by the thought he is not surprised about the Sha-Brytol. He knew.

Of course he did. Of course.

When can she stop being so angry? When will he stop doing this?

"How else did you think I escaped? Really, Solas. I wouldn't have gone into the Deep Roads if you'd stayed away like I asked you to do. You destroyed a city," she says, "And for what, spite?"

"If you fought corrupted Sha-Brytol, you know I did not destroy Kirkwall out of spite," he says, "I told you---" And she doesn't care.

"I don't know anything because you won't tell me anything," she says, "And I think you did destroy it out of spite. If I wasn't there, you would have been content to ignore it."

She takes a breath, hates how shaky it feels. She doesn't have to explain any of this. He is not owed justification. She is not an errant child ignoring curfew.

"Whatever danger was there, you would have let it take them," she says, "You didn't care about any of them. My people. Mine. And you didn't care."

She is right. It is right there on his face and he doesn't disguise it quick enough. That is so unlike him. He is usually so careful, she thinks. 

"Maybe they aren't people to you either," she says, and it sits like a stone, "Maybe you've just been fooling yourself, and me, into thinking you see us differently now. We are still unimportant, broken little things. We are disposable."

We are nothing, she thinks. 

"You are not disposable---"

"No one is disposable," she says, "Let go of my arm. You're hurting me." She channels Velanna--pouring as much cold disdain into her tone as she can muster.

And then he does. He looks at her, confused, as if he hadn't realized what he was doing. He steps back. He looks horrified.

"This is the last time I'll say it, vhenan," she says, "If you love me, if you truly want to be with me, stop chasing me. I will be fine without you. I was for so long. Do you remember? Do you remember when you left me and told me it was for the best. That it was kinder in the long run. Well, this is for the best. It is kinder in the long run."

"Pull your troops out of Nevarra," she says, "You have your land and your kingdom, you don't need the whole world."

"Nevarra," he says.

And that is when it all falls apart. She curses herself. She is the biggest idiot in the world, she thinks. How does he keep doing this to her, getting her to lower her guard, getting her to forget.

"Don't," she says, "Just don't. I know what you're thinking."

He stops listening. His gaze shifts inward. That horrified look, the one she fought so hard for, softens. He is plotting possible routes she could have taken from Kirkwall---the Deep Roads. He is running through the cities, eliminating the ones she couldn't have reached or wouldn't have.

He does know her too well. 

She hits him. The smack of her palm against his cheek is not nearly as satisfying as it should be. She does not relish the violence. She doubts she would do it in person. 

"Stop it," she says, he catches her wrist when she tries to hit him again.

"You hit me," he says. His grip tightens and he looks furious and surprised. As if he didn't expect her to or didn't think she could. She should probably be afraid. At least a little. 

"I'll hit you again if that's what it takes," she says, "And if I see you in person, I'll do worse. You might have to kill me. Are you prepared to do that?"

"I don't believe it will come to that," he says.

"You know me," she says, "Do you think I'm bluffing?" She doesn't know if she's bluffing so there's no way he could know. 

He doesn't answer. He huffs. 

"Get the fuck out of Nevarra and go home," she says, "I have had enough of your games." He hides the hurt well but she sees it, for just a second.

He steps back, bows his head. The curve of his lips doesn't come close to a real smile.

For the first time, he's the one to leave. The Fade shifts and the damned strange house becomes a familiar forest in the Free Marches. She sees the aravels again and Keeper Deshanna. She sees the children and the hunters. She sees her family.

She sees everything she'll never have again.

She does not feel any better.


	34. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She did not expect to see more spirits.

Fenris leads them to Hunter Fell, the city where the third blight ended and the old god, Toth, was vanquished. She doesn't know why she's surprised. It makes a certain kind of sense Grey Wardens would choose somewhere like this to shelter them.

The city is not deserted but it is not occupied by Elvhen forces. The people are unarmed and dressed in plain clothes, but she recognizes a few of the faces, Grey Wardens. Definitely. And there are spirits walking among them. 

It is the first time she's seen them mingling with ordinary people. Away from the Elvhen.

She feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

She'll be able to barter for new robes or the materials to make new robes. She doesn't have much, just a few trinkets she picked up in the Deep Roads, but she might have enough. If she's lucky she'll be able to give Mahariel back Wintersbreath and make her own staff. Something that resonates a little better with fire magic. 

She would kill for some good, strong dragonbone. And dragon webbing. And dragon scales. Gods, she wouldn't even mind if she had to fight an actual dragon.

"You can stop glaring now," she says to Fenris when she catches the look he's giving her, "Another day and I haven't betrayed you. Will wonders never cease?"

His scowl alone could ice over the whole of the Waking Sea.

 

Mahariel is in the tavern. Singing. Badly. A spirit has draped itself half over his shoulders and half across the bar. 

Somehow, she's the only one surprised by this. 

He breaks off in the middle of a bawdy chorus when he sees them. Oh dear, she thinks, now we'll never know if the pink Orlesian longsnake is a metaphor for a penis or happens to be an actual snake. The spirit seems disappointed. It wraps around one of the other patrons and a new song begins.

But it keeps shooting what she thinks are longing looks at Mahariel's back. 

Despite Fenris' attempts to dodge, Mahariel gets him into a hug. He lifts him a few inches off the ground and she has never seen him look quite so mortified. He is more than a little pained. He struggles. 

"Please stop," he says, finally pulling back. Mahariel scoops up Merrill who seems much less horrified by it. She giggles as he spins her around. She hugs him back. 

"I'm not saying I was worried," he says when he lets her go and moves on to the next victim, "But you're late." 

"Yes, well," Fenris says, crossing his arms over his chest, "Since it was your plan, there were complications."

"We fought one of June's priests, probably quite ancient," Merrill says, "There was red lyrium. It was fascinating."

Mahariel makes a face.

"You would get the fun route," he says,"We were chased by spiders. It was dull." And then Zevran is pouncing on him and they are both laughing. The spirit's attention is drawn again by the sound. 

"We've lost Nevarra City," Fenris says, "A bit of a warning would have been nice."

"Pull up a chair and have a drink. We'll talk about it after you've settled in. Might I recommend a bath? You're all a bit ripe." He starts to reach for Sera but rethinks when he sees her scowl. He pulls back so fast it's as if she's made of fire and he just realizes it's going to burn.

None of it matters though. He has said the magic word. Bath. Lavellan is positively light headed with joy at the thought of hot water and actual soap.

Mahariel turns to her.

"Well this is different," he says, and he pokes her elbow, "Is this a new arm or are you just happy to see me?"

"That doesn't make sense," Fenris mutters.

"Think about it, my friend," Zevran says. He is brave to wink at Fenris, she thinks. 

"No. Must you make everything dirty?" 

"Yes, my friend, yes," he says.

Then Fenris does storm off toward the bar for that drink. Zevran looks like he's going to follow and make a pest of himself. But he doesn't. Instead he settles again Mahariel, an arm across his shoulders. 

"Yes, new," she says, she doesn't feel like talking about the lyrium priest or the titan's heart, "We traveled a bit with the second group of wardens. Velanna took them the long way around. I'm not quite sure where that will take them, but I assume you do." 

She wants that bath. That. Hot. Bath. The thought is practically humming in her skull. It is almost an ache. She doesn't want to think about anything else. Not Solas. Not Nevarra. Not anything. Just hot water and soap. Just a moment of long quiet. 

"What did I just say?" Mahariel asks, "We'll talk business later. Drink?" 

"Bath," she says, "Where?"

He shrugs. 

"Pick an empty house. Stay at the inn, " he says, "Whatever strikes your fancy. There aren't as many civilians here as there were in Kirkwall. We've already arranged it with the elders. As long as it isn't already owned and claimed, you're welcome to it."

"Pfft. Don't need to do that," Sera says, "Already have a place." And she elbows Lavellan. She makes the "get on with it" face.

Lavellan relaxes. It is a relief. The thought of poking around in strange houses is not appealing. She starts to give Wintersbreath to Mahariel but he shakes his head.

"You are as bad as Fenris," he says, exasperated, "Give yourself a minute to breathe. Anything important can wait a few more hours. Relax and try to enjoy yourself. Have some fun. "

This catches the spirit's interest. 

It drifts toward them, away from the singing. It curls around both Zevran and Mahariel, it's face sandwiching itself neatly between their heads. She is tempted to ask what kind of spirit it is but doesn't know if that would be wise. It is grinning. It is more than a little creepy. 

"I know," she says, "But it belonged to your friend. I thought---"

"Sera, do something about her, won't you?" Mahariel says, and Sera snorts, "If you give it back now, it's just going into a crate so it can collect dust and be useless. What am I supposed to do with a mage staff?" 

"I can think of a thing or two," Zevran says. And the spirit seems delighted.

"Shut up," Fenris shouts over his shoulder.

"Hello," the spirit says, and she can't tell if it's looking at her or through her or slightly behind her.

"Goodbye," Sera says.

And then Sera is dragging her out of the tavern.

 

The Red Jennies' safe house is an ugly, square building on the outskirts of town. The houses to the left and right of it seem empty and are equally ugly.

It's partially stocked with supplies---she finds a change of clothes that fits her well enough. There is enough raw material that she could, in theory, make her own robes. The one she's wearing will probably need to be burned---they are so filthy and worn out she can't even think of trying to squeeze into them ever again.

And then there's the smell. 

There are enough beds for everyone. Real, actual beds with pillows and blankets. She leaves Wintersbreath across one of them to claim it. Not that it matters.

But the best thing she finds is tucked into one of the supply crates. It's wine. It's not Tevinter red, but it's not Elvhen either, so it will do. She uncorks a bottle and wonders how much time she has before everything starts to fall apart again. 

There is only one bath tub in the building and there is already a line. She doesn't really feel like poking around next door, but she really doesn't want to wait. She grabs a towel. She gathers up her change of clothes and lets herself into the house on the left. 

It is dusty and empty. The quiet is soothing. Or perhaps that's the wine, she thinks.

"Hello," says an unfamiliar voice.

She almost drops the bottle.

"I am so sorry, I didn't realize this house was occupied---"

It is the spirit from the tavern. 

"Oh," she says, "Hello."

"Sorry, hello to you too," it says, "But I meant him."

Her heart almost jumps out off her chest but when she turns to look where he's pointing, she sees no one. It's just empty space. A table, some chairs---nothing more than inanimate objects. Well, for a moment that's true, but then it isn't.

Cole is suddenly sitting, perched on the edge of the table. 

"Hello, Compassion," the spirit says again. It is too pleased. 

"We are Failure," Cole insists. But he looks like Rage. Just Rage.

"How are you here---have you been with us the whole time?" she asks. She is a little unnerved by the thought of him following them unseen. He doesn't answer. He scars the wood with his dagger, meaningless cuts, deep gouges and shallow lines.

"We will have fun, Failure," the spirit says, "You will like the people when they play Wicked Grace. The pretty one cheats and takes their clothes."

"What kind of spirit are you, anyway?" she asks. 

"The pretty one calls me Trouble," it says, grinning, "I can't remember what I was before. Oh! I know a fun thing. When they drink too much, we will hide their pants. You will like that." It's laughter is more than a little chilling. 

Oh dear.

She clutches her change of clothes a little more tightly. She is glad Sera isn't terribly comfortable with spirits. She should never be left alone with this one. 

"We do not want to be seen," Cole says, "They will be afraid."

"But it will be fun!" The spirit starts to curl around her. It is warm and rather pleasant, she thinks, and she can see why Mahariel didn't protest. It stretches toward Cole but doesn't touch him. She can tell it wants to, but it has enough sense to stop just short of it.

"I'm glad you're ok, Cole," she says, "I was worried."

She is still worried. She does not sense despair in him, and despair felt like the safer fragment of his personality. Rage is deadly, unpredictable. 

She wants to hug him. She wants to erase that look from his eyes.

That would not go well.

"You saved me," she says, "Thank you. I couldn't have escaped without you."

He is gone again and she should not have said that. The spirit flutters, disappointment rolling off it in waves. She knows how it feels. She doesn't want Cole to hide. 

"Oh, well," it says and then it turns to her, "But you're here too and you like pants! You will like this."

"Maybe some other time," she says. No. She is not getting stabbed. Not today. Not tomorrow. She is not stealing Grey Warden pants. She takes a very long drink of wine right out of the bottle. 

"Yes!" it says and it seems to brighten, "And I will show you other things. Failure can come too and he will have fun."

No, she thinks.

Just no.

Trouble stares at the space where Cole is probably still sitting. He grins.


	35. Strange Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation is strange.

Trouble is not easily chased out, but when it does leave, finally, Cole reappears. She is never going to get around to finding that bathtub and taking her bath, she thinks. 

"You shouldn't talk with him. He isn't very nice," Cole says.

"His name is Trouble, that says it all," she says, "He seemed more interested in you anyway."

"He lies," Cole says.

He hangs back when she opens the only other door on the first floor---it's just a kitchen, musty from being sealed and foul from the now desiccated food still on the table and the shelves. She shuts it back up. She'll have to try the second floor.

She doesn't know how to talk to Cole.

"I'm looking for the bath tub," she says, "I don't suppose you know where it is?" Her smile feels shaky. 

His gaze flicks to her face and it sends a chill through her. He seems to shrink in on himself. He flickers, as if he's can't decide whether or not to disappear. 

"We won't hurt you," he says. And he's sliding off the table. He sits under it, hiding. 

"I know that," she says. She drops to her knees, to his level, but he won't meet her gaze now. He stares at the floor. 

"You don't." It is accusing. Angry. Disappointed. She is not afraid, but he is not the same. She wants to help him. She wants to blot out some of his rage. She tries to steady her smile, be convincing. 

But he's gone again. No matter what she says, he doesn't reappear. 

 

Sleep takes her back to the new Elvhen city Solas has been so fondly rebuilding. He's wearing silverite and a green silk overshirt, trimmed with white. He looks like one of the Emerald Knights, pulled right from Keeper Deshanna's stories. 

"I wanted to show you our progress," he says, "We have almost finished the repairs. It is beautiful is it not?"

It is beautiful, she grudgingly admits. There are new stone archways---each point is sharp, carefully carved. New. The floor is a smooth expanse of marble tiles. Outside, trees and flowers have been planted and someone has created elaborate statues. Veridium, maybe, she thinks. The color is just about right.

The streets are so white they almost shimmer.

She is not surprised. Elvhen ruins were always lovely. There was no doubt this new city would be breath taking.

He smiles. He stands with his hands clasped behind him. He is just close enough he could touch her if he wanted---he doesn't. He seems more like he was before, when he was pretending to be an ordinary man. He is patient. He is reserved. The air is not quite so thick with his magic. 

She is suspicious.

Still, if he's overseeing repairs, he isn't looking for her. Not personally anyway. She would be foolish to think he has taken their last conversation to heart, but perhaps. Perhaps.

She must be careful. 

"You must be very proud," she says, "It is stunning."

That smile again.

"Thank you," he says, "Would you hold it against me if I said it is nothing without you here? It's beauty pales---" She snorts. She must be hearing things, she thinks, because that is just terrible.

"I will, absolutely," she says, "That is a very old line." 

"I am a very old man," he says.

"In that case, you should know better ones," she says. 

"How was your day?" he asks. The shift is dizzying. 

She looks at him, and a knot twists in her belly. This is ordinary and strange all at the same time. They don't exchange pleasantries or make small talk. They don't do ordinary. They don't do this. 

"What are you doing?" she asks.

He tilts his head when he looks at her, his brow furrowing. 

"I'm asking you about your day," he says, "I want to talk. Is that so hard to believe?" Yes, it is, she thinks.

His shoulders slump and he sighs. 

"I am trying," he says, "We used to talk. I miss it."

So does she, but talking is dangerous. Talking like _this_ is dangerous. It is too easy to forget, to slip up, to give him too much. And she doesn't know where his head is. She can't guess if this is genuine.

"My day was fine," she says, "Strange but fine."

"What was strange about it?" he asks. But that is a step too far. Cole. Trouble. Hunter Fell---he doesn't need to know where she is. She does not believe for a second he's going to pull his people out of Nevarra. 

She shakes her head and looks up at the sky. It is too many colors all at once, blues and greens and purples. The horizon is tinged red. Lovely but different. Unfamiliar even after all this time. She doesn't know when she will get used to the change. 

He sighs again but doesn't press for more. A long silence follows and he seems to be looking for something else to say. She is surprised. Perhaps he is trying. Somehow.

She can talk if she's careful. She can do that much.

"Seeing spirits in the waking world," she says at last, "I am still getting used to it. Some of them are odd." This is safe. It's vague.

"I imagine it is just as strange for them," he says, he sits on the window sill, turning to face her, "There are some who didn't...transition well. It was too great a shock. They can be a bit unpredictable."

Yes, Cole, she almost snaps. Sweet, kind, thoughtful Cole. Broken, fractured, angry Cole. Compassion was already too rare a spirit. Even the loss of just one was too much.

"May I ask what kind of spirit you encountered?" 

"I don't know," she says, "Friendly. Naughty. Fixated on having fun. It didn't know either."

When he smiles, she feels the unwanted twinge in her chest. She needs to stop looking at him, because when he looks at her like that, she forgets to breathe. It would be nice if someone would wake her up now. 

"Interesting," he says, "A spirit of desire or curiosity, perhaps, or mischief. I'm sure the answer will present itself soon enough."

"What about you?" she asks, and she can't believe she's even asking, "How was your day?" She feels horribly fake, talking like this---pretending the last few months didn't happen and he didn't just destroy a city.

"I'm trying to repair the Vir Dirthara," he says. She approves. The state of the library was horrifying---all those books ruined and the spirits blocked from their purpose. It is a better task than chasing her. It is something the old Solas would have wanted to do. 

He takes her hand, kisses the back of it. His gaze flicks up and she knows _that_ look. When she pulls her hand back, the look softens into something wistful. 

Then he's gone. No word. No goodbye. Just gone.

She doesn't know what to think.

The city melts away, leaving her in the Free Marches again. It is the night lightning struck one of the aravels and they almost lost Mahanon and Neria. It was a race to save what they could before fire consumed the supplies. 

It is not her favorite memory.

 

Someone leaves shards of dragonbone at the foot of her bed. She finds them when she wakes. They are very old, scorched and brittle. Useless. Tiny shards splinter off when she picks them up.

Skinner shrugs when she asks if she saw who left it. She goes back to measuring black powder and sifting it into small, metal spheres. She passes the finished product to Dalish, who inscribes what looks like a modified a fire rune on the surface. 

"No one's been in but the Jennies," Dalish says, "It's a weird thing to leave lying around, probably a spirit. I wouldn't worry too much."

Cole, then, she thinks, but she doesn't know why he'd leave something she can't use. She drops them into a bag and shoves it under the bed. When she sits back on her heels, Sera is staring at her.

She almost can't stifle her surprised shriek.

Sera flicks her nose.

"Ok, right," Sera says, "Don't freak out or anything."

Shit.

"Why? What did you do?" she asks.

"I know, right? No, nothing yet," Sera says, and she looks uncomfortable, "The thing is, a couple of us are heading out again. Small team. Um right so---" 

"I'm staying behind. Is that what you're trying to say?" she asks. She is not as disappointed as Sera apparently thinks she should be. After the Deep Roads, she is in no hurry to get back out on the road. She could sleep for a week of they'd let her. 

"Small team is better for this," Sera continues, "Can't take everybody. Sorry. Next time, maybe."

"It's ok, really," she says.

And then she adds, "You're not going back to throw bombs at his fortress, are you?" She feels a flicker of concern. 

"Pfft, no point now, got what we wanted," Sera says, "There's a bunch of elfy elves a little closer to home who have a little something coming to them. You know what I mean."

She does. Nevarra City. She is more than a little relieved they aren't heading back to attack his fortress. He would take it as an invitation. But this is still not the best idea Sera's had. 

"Just be careful," she says. 

"No fun in that," Sera says.


	36. Finding the Forgewright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is too good at making terrible decisions to stop now.

Sera, Dalish, Skinner, and Loranil leave without saying goodbye. The next day, Lavellan has company.

"I like fire," Trouble says, "Will you make me some?" She has been trying to focus on sewing new robes, but she is still a little clumsy with the new hand. It is strange to have one again, to actually be able to feel. She keeps sticking herself with the needle. 

She doesn't turn her head but she shoots it a glance out of the corner of her eye. No, that's not creepy. Not at all.

"Why?" she asks. Dales Loden Wool and Silk brocade were probably not her best choices. The brocade is a nightmare to work with and she is terrified of cutting too much off the wool. But it is all she can find in the crates. There isn't enough of anything else.

She hasn't figured out how she's going to handle the Halla leather. It will take some doing to get it cut and stitched properly. She might have to ask for help.

"Because fire is pretty," it says, "And I have things to burn."

"Things you need to give back?" she asks. She is not helping it burn stole Grey Warden pants. No. Just no. 

It laughs, confirming her suspicions. Trouble is most definitely trying to get her killed.

"If you make fire, I'll show you something," it says. She is not even a little tempted. 

"No, thank you," she says. She wonders if Mahariel is in the tavern. She didn't hear his terrible singing when she passed by the tavern earlier so it's possible he's out doing important Mahariel things. That would explain why Trouble is pestering her instead of pestering the Grey Wardens.

She still doesn't understand why it keeps calling Mahariel "pretty one" instead of using his actual name. 

"It's something you'll like," Trouble insists.

"Like stolen pants?" she asks. She is kidding but it doesn't seem to get that. 

"Better," it says. 

"No."

She is saved by a commotion outside and up the street. The last group of Grey Wardens are back. Velanna looks exhausted. Mahariel looks concerned. And Fenris looks just as annoyed as he always looks.

They are missing seven, maybe eight, people. 

Trouble passes through the door, drifts toward them, and she puts her sewing aside. She follows. 

 

They stop talking and stare at her when she reaches them. She just catches the end of Velanna's explanation.

"---looks like an ordinary dragon, maybe," she says, "But there is something very strange about it. I think---" And then they see her and Velanna clamps her mouth shut. that is a shame, she thinks, because she is suddenly very interested in this conversation. 

"Hello," she says, and before she can say anything else, Mahariel is steering her away.

"Just give us a few moments," he says, "Grey Warden business, you understand?" He is joking. Surely.

"Fenris isn't a grey warden," she points out. She would gone if he hadn't said that. Grey Warden business, my ass, she thinks. 

"No, but he's---he's Fenris. Just give us a few minutes," he says, "I promise, if it's important, you'll be the first to know---" Ha!

"I've fought dragons before," she says, "If you're talking about fighting a dragon it would be silly not to include me. We killed ten not counting Corypheus' corrupted beast. I can help."

But they don't want her help. Mahariel looks pained for a moment and then his face hardens. He levels a look at her that says this is not up for discussion. She's used the same look many times. She's not intimidated.

"We will talk later," he says, "Go. Take Trouble with you. He's distracting." He adds a please as an after thought.

Why does this feel like a slap in the face? What about this dragon could be so strange they'd want to exclude her? 

"You don't think it's really a dragon," she says and Velanna's eyes bug out a little, more with annoyance than surprise, "Mythal was a shapeshifter. You think this dragon might be a shapeshifter." You think it might be Solas, she thinks. When he took Mythal's power, perhaps he took her ability to transform as well. Perhaps he was lying about restoring the Vir Dirthara. None of that makes her feel any better. 

"Fine, yes, you guessed it," Velanna says, "Now go away." 

Rage. Pure, hot rage.

"I'm starting to believe you all think I'm some useless, empty headed feather brain," she says, "Do you often disregard help when it's offered? You're beset upon by a strange dragon and the person with the most experience fighting dragons gets shooed away. Where is the sense in that?"

"Come on, Trouble," she adds, "Lets go burn things. Where are all those stolen pants?" She can't remember why she thought Trouble's idea was terrible before. It sounds fantastic now. 

It is childish, but she's feeling childish. This is reminding her too much of Solas and Abelas and their special war room meetings. She feels like she's been patted on the head and told to run along and play. 

Mahariel mutters something under his breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes. 

"This way!" Trouble exclaims, fluttering with joy. 

"Wait," he says, "You're right. Of course. Please, stay, any insight you may have will be---" But she sees Velanna's face and Fenris' face. She'd rather burn pants than stay where her presence is barely tolerated. After everything, she's still not wanted.

They don't really need her help anyway. Mahariel saved the world from an Archdemon. Fenris fought dragons with Hawke, and she's heard stories of Velanna--she is terrifying in her own right. She would have to be to have been chosen to lead a group through the Deep Roads. 

"You wanted a few minutes," she says, "Go ahead. Have them. If you decide you need my help, you can find me." She very much doubts they will.

"Please don't burn any pants," Mahariel calls after her, "We actually sort of need them. Could you bring them back? He keeps hiding them."

She ignores him. 

She is too angry anyway, and she knows she is overreacting. It is possible this is more about about being left behind by Sera than being excluded from dragon hunting meetings. She doesn't care to analyze it. 

 

Trouble has a frightening stash of stolen things hidden in an old root cellar. 

No wonder Mahariel was alarmed at the thought of her burning the missing pants---the pile is taller than she is. But she doesn't relish the thought of seeing bunch of half naked Grey Wardens running around town. She is only going to burn half of the pile, she decides. She'll have to take them outside to do it though. There is no air flow down here---the smoke would be too much.

Trouble has stolen more than just pants.

"You have quite a collection," she says.

"We can burn more than just pants," it says, "If you want." She does not want. 

There are stacks of books. There are daggers---some look very similar to a few from Skinner's inventory. There are jeweled necklaces and pieces of gold and many pretty, shiny, useless things.

There are too animal skulls and too many human skulls, and that makes her more than a little uncomfortable.

But it is a broken mage staff that catches her eye. It is a very old, Tevinter magister design. It is dragonbone, charred and brittle where it has been broken, but the rest of it looks sturdy. In theory, the break is so low to the ground, she could use it as it is. She is short and the staff is tall. It doesn't really need to be reforged.

"This is my favorite thing," Trouble says. The splintering at the break makes her think of the dragonbone shards left on her bed. Maybe Cole wasn't the one who left them.

"You can have it after you burn all of the pants," it says. And it puts the emphasis on all of the pants, as if it knew what she was planning. Mahariel does seem to desperately want them back.

But it's a nice staff. And she is feeling petty.

When she touches it, she feels its affinity for fire. The head of it sparks to life and it is burning. Much like Wintersbreath, she feels the temperature shift. Her hands feel a heat instead of a chill---a delicious heat. There is little chance she can say no.

It's called the Forgewright's Rage. 

"You, my strange friend, have yourself a deal," she says.

She does not feel even a little bad about this.


	37. On Dark Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thinks she knows a lie when she hears it, but she is wrong.

He does not change the dream this time. He leaves them standing in the camp, surrounded by echoes of the dead. Her people, her family, her friends. The fire is already high and the hunters have brought back a wild boar for the evening meal.

He looks out of place. She looks out of place.

"Will you come home?" he asks.

"No. You know I won't," she says, and he nods as if it's what he expects her to say. He should know by now. He should stop asking.

"I wish there was something I could say to change your mind," he says, "Would you at least consider it if I asked you to cut ties with the wardens and their allies?"

She levels a glare at him.

"Not even for a second," she says.

He sighs. His eyes shut for a moment and then he's trying very hard to smile.

"You were right, vhenan," he says.

It is unnerving because his eyes are the wrong color. They are so pale they almost look white. As if the color has leached out of them. There is no blue.

"Right about what?" she asks, "There are so many things---"

He kisses her cheek and steps back. The shade of Keeper Deshanna clucks her tongue at such an obvious breach of etiquette. Then she busies herself, assisting the hunters with the kill. 

"I will not chase you," he says, "I promise."

As if it's that simple, as if he just woke up that morning and changed his mind. She doesn't believe him. 

"What brought about this change of heart?" she asks. The children are laughing, chasing each other between the aravels, making a general nuisance of themselves. 

"You," he says, "This world. Things have changed. We have time again. I can afford to be patient. My foolishness has cost us so much."

She forgets to breathe.

"Do not toy with me," she says, "If this is your idea of---"

"I'm not," he says, "When you---if you want to return, I will be here. You will find me."

"Pardon me if I don't trust you."

He tilts his head, and he looks broken hearted. Her heart aches and she hates it. She hates it so much. He has earned this. It isn't her fault.

He leans in, kisses the corner of her mouth.

"I understand," he says, and he pulls back, smiles at her, "It will take time. I am willing to wait. For however long it takes."

He touches her face again and then he's gone. She's alone in the dream. 

 

She does not feel better when she wakes. Not after breakfast. Not a few hours later. Not even then.

She is struggling with the Halla leather when Mahariel surprises her. He sits across from her and his expression is grim. He rests his elbows on the table. 

She has already returned Wintersbreath. She sent it with Zevran. Mahariel doesn't have a reason to be here.

"Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry, lethallan?" he asks.

Oh. Well. No. That is a bit of a surprise. 

"For what? You don't owe me anything," she says. And she remembers the dragon and why she's supposed to be angry with him. If they want to fight a dragon without her, that's their business. 

"You should have stayed. I'm an idiot," he says. 

She agrees. He is. They all are, herself included. 

She does not want the dragon to be a shape shifter. She wants it to be an ordinary dragon that got a little too big for its britches. No god powers. No lyrium corruption. Just an ordinary, hungry creature. Not Solas.

Because if it is Solas, he is still lying to her.

"Let me guess," she says, "You have no idea how to deal with the dragon."

"I have ideas," he says, "They just aren't very good yet. I am sorry. You are not the enemy. You left of your own accord. You've given us no reason to doubt you."

"Your friends would disagree," she says. Loudly and often. Fenris. Velanna. Probably more. Probably people she doesn't even know. 

"Then it's a good thing they aren't in charge," he says. He is not convincing. She tries to push the needle through the leather but she still can't get enough force behind it to push it through. The thread tangles and she has to stop to untangle it. At this rate, she will never finish these damn robes. She will have to go into battle naked and no one needs to see that.

"You've commanded armies," he continues, "You shouldn't have to ask to be included. Your experience and your wisdom is valued. We are in too short a supply of both."

Pretty words, she thinks. Pretty, pretty words. She sticks herself again with the damn needle. Leather is not meant to be stitched like this. It is impossible. 

She is not wise. Any wisdom she has is purely accidental. And experience is just another way to politely say one did something stupid and lived to tell about it. 

"We have armorers," Mahariel says, "All you have to do is ask. You don't have to make your own armor."

"I'm sure they'd be thrilled to see me," she says. They would probably turn around and run the other way. Here comes the Inquisitor, don't get too close, her vhenan destroyed the world---it's probably catching. 

Mahariel sighs. He holds out a hand for the needle and the leather, and after a moment, she relents. He stares at the needle, the corners of his mouth twitching, He is trying not to smile.

"I've never seen anyone try to stitch leather with a needle like this," he says, "It's no wonder it's giving you trouble." The corners of his eyes crinkle. How nice to be so amused, she thinks. 

"Yes, well, thank you so much for that," she snaps, "It's all I had to work with."

"You're one of us now---I should have made sure you had what you needed," he says, "Forgive me? I spent a very long time away from the world, it's hard to remember how I'm supposed to act, sometimes. I never was very good at diplomacy."

She snorts.

"Liar," she says. 

If a spirit of charisma were to take an elven form, it would look like Mahariel. And that is annoying. He has an almost supernatural way of maneuvering people around to get what he wants. He makes you think it's your idea to do him a favor. Even with Josephine and Leliana at her side, she was never that good.

"Yes," he says, "Maybe I am a little. Maybe we all are. What do you say? Will you help me figure things out? Velanna's dragon is...something. I don't know what to make of it."

It is another lie but it works. She doesn't know how he manages to suck the rage right out of her, but he does. It is a terrible apology and she knows she's being manipulated, but for some reason, it doesn't offend her. It should. He is horrible.

She is ashamed at how much she needs this. She's willing to accept obvious lies just to feel included. Pathetic. 

"I think I might hate you," she says. She is not going to smile at him. No. She is not. Her traitorous lips twitch. 

"You know, I think there's probably a club for that. The We Hate Mahariel club, it's secretly a fan club, but you have to pretend it isn't or they boot you out. You should ask Fenris," he says.

Fenris. No. That kills any smile she might have given.

He sees her face and backtracks.

"You're right. Don't. That's a terrible idea," he says, "He takes a while to warm up to people. It doesn't help that you're a mage. And the Dread Wolf's lover. And the Inquisitor. I wouldn't take it personally."

She really doesn't want to talk about Fenris. She can understand hating her for two of those things. For being the Inquisitor who failed and the woman who let herself be seduced by the Dread Wolf---she hates herself frequently for those reasons. But for being a mage? There is no sense in that.

"I doubt you'd take anything personally," she says. 

"I'm old. I know better now," he says. Another lie. He is not old. If there was a drinking game for Mahariel's lies she would be drunk with in the first ten minutes.

"You're ridiculous," she says.

"Always," he says.

He waves the stubborn piece of leather at her.

"Is there more? I'll have someone stitch this for you," he says, "Is that alright?" She is lucky she's marked everything. It should be easy enough to figure out.

"I suppose that wouldn't be horrible," she says. And she gives him the rest of her work. The cloth has already been stitched. 

"This dragon is too smart to be a normal dragon. We have to deal with it. Will you help us fight?" he asks, "Your presence is needed, lethallan. Please. I can beg if it'll make it harder for you to say no."

She has nothing to throw at him. She wants to say no, but how can she after that? 

"Fine," she says, after a tense moment passes. He is grinning again. Yes, yes, she thinks, gloat while you can.

"I don't suppose you were able to find our pants?" he asks, hopeful.

She says, "No."

She laughs.

 

It takes half a day for Velanna to lead them to the site, but Lavellan knows even before they reach it. The dragon is not Solas. It is also not really a dragon. And it is familiar. She sees it curled up in the distance, laying on a bed of ash and ruined metal.

When the realization hits, it knocks the breath right out of her. She stops. She stares.

"What is it?" Fenris asks.

"That's Morrigan," she says. When the dragon looks at them, there is recognition in its eyes---her eyes.

Very little remains of the dead wardens. She has reduced them to ash, even the armor is melted down, beyond recognition. There is nothing left to take back. There is no way to identify the remains.

"What did you say?" Mahariel asks and turns to face her. And then she remembers. He knows her too. 

"Morrigan," she repeats, "Yes, the same Morrigan you knew her during the Blight. When she drank from the Well of Sorrows she gained the knowledge to change into a dragon." And she was bound to Mythal. But she was human. To see her still alive, even in another form, was shocking.

"Morrigan was human. She would have died, wouldn't she? She couldn't have---no, wait, this actually makes sense. If anyone could, it would be her, " Mahariel says and then he pauses, "Wait. If that's her, why in blazes is she killing my Grey Warden?" 

"How should I know? I don't live inside her head," she says. And thank the Gods for that. 

"Morrigan? Is that you?" he calls out, "I feel ridiculous."

The dragon flicks her tail. Her scales ripple and bunch and then she takes off. The force from her wing beats nearly knocks them down.

He curses.

"Oh, that's her," he says and then he shouts at her, "I'd know that look on any face. Don't you dare run away, again! Get back here---"

She ignores him, circles almost lazily above. 

"I know you heard me!" he shouts, "Your head is fucking enormous. Morrigan! Mo-rri-gaaaaaan."

She glances down once, and for a moment, it looks like she's going to relent and land. Or possibly set them all on fire. Probably set them all on fire. But then she changes course and flies away. South. They can not follow fast enough and she does not return.

"Stop killing my Grey Wardens," he shouts. And he shakes his fist. He's not nearly as funny as he thinks he is.

"Well you sure told her," Velanna says. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. 

"Yes. So much for that," Fenris says, and he looks disappointed. He sheathes his blade, "What a waste of a day."

"That thing chased us. For miles," Velanna says, "One look at you and she just up and leaves? Next time, you're staying home."

"But, that's Morrigan," Mahariel says, "Believe it or not, she likes me. She wouldn't just---I mean, she knows. She couldn't---bah! I don't understand."

Neither does Lavellan, and she doesn't like it. The Morrigan she knew was ruthless but she didn't exactly kill for sport. She had no reason to kill Velanna's wardens. Unless they attacked her, and as long as they'd been on the rode, running, she doubts very much they attacked her. 

She has another thought, nagging at her. 

"When she drank from the Well of Sorrows, she was bound to Mythal's will," she says.

"And Mythal is dead, I've heard the story," Mahariel says. He still looks confused, frustrated. A little angry. 

"But Solas isn't," she says, "And he took Mythal's power." There is no breeze and the heat is just a few degrees shy of unbearable. Still, she shivers. 

Solas wouldn't. Solas didn't.

She feels sick.

She hadn't even thought about what the bindings meant for Morrigan. She pretended it wasn't important. She just assumed. 

But Solas is still Solas. He wouldn't force her to obey him like that. He was a revolutionary who fought against those kinds of abuses. He was repulsed. He overthrew the Evanuris. He wouldn't let himself become them. No matter what happened, he wouldn't resort to that.

And why would he need to? He has more than enough power to do his own dirty work. He doesn't need Morrigan. 

He said he wouldn't chase her. He swore. 

"I suppose that would explain her killing my wardens then," Mahariel says, "Damn it all. There has to be a way to snap her out of whatever this is. I really, really don't want to have to kill her."

Velanna looks bewildered.

"She killed our people," Velanna says, "You can't seriously be considering---"

"She's also a friend and she was my ally," Mahariel says, "She's the sole reason I'm alive. And I mean that completely literally. If she's being controlled, this isn't her fault. We have to help her." 

"Help her? If she's a threat, we have to kill her. We can't afford to be sentimental," Fenris says. 

"I agree. We can't afford another attack," Velanna says, "We've lost too many people already. If we keep letting people kill us just because we used to be friends, there aren't going to be any of us left."

But now is not the time for this, she thinks. 

"This is not open for discussion," Mahariel says. He snarls, actually snarls. His mouth sets in a thin line and his face is red. His eyes narrow and every muscle of his body seems too tense. She has not seen him angry before and she doesn't care to see it again. 

"Is this how all your meetings go?" she asks, "Someone makes a decision and the rest of you argue about it at inappropriate times?"

"You wanted to be here," Fenris says, "Enjoy it."

Lavellan is starting to wish she'd stayed behind.

"Meanwhile," she says, ignoring him, "We've been lured out of the city by a dragon that may or may not be under Solas' control, a dragon that is clearly powerful enough to hurt us but chose not to even try. Does anyone else feel like we've just made a terrible mistake or is it just me?"

Even the heat of Forgewright in her hands doesn't comfort her.

She can see the moment it all sinks in. Their faces go dark. It's going to be a long walk back.

 

Zevran meets them about a mile from town and he is bloody. He is alone. He is furious. It seems she was right after all. 

"We have a very small, enormous problem," he says.

She doesn't want to know. She doesn't. She doesn't. She doesn't. Her chest hurts and it's hard to breathe. Her stomach twists into knots.

"What happened?" Fenris asks. It comes out more of a growl than a question, but Zevran doesn't seem alarmed.

"Do you want the good news or the bad?" he asks. He tries to smile and falls short. 

"Zevran, please."

"Ah, the good news then," he says, "Sera's back early. Smile?"

"And?"

"And now the bad news, we have guests," he says, "This next part you're really not going to like." He is right. She really doesn't like it. She's going to like it a lot less when he tells them just who the guests are and how many there are. And how many hostages they have. 

She feels so stupid.

Solas said he wouldn't chase her, but he said nothing about them. He didn't promise not to chase the wardens or Sera or the Jennies. She didn't even think to ask. Why hadn't she thought to ask?

Because she is selfish and stupid . A winning combination.

This is a slap to the face. This is worse.

This is not funny.

"That damn dragon," Velanna mutters.

"Oh, this isn't a dragon," Zevran says, "That would have been nothing. A city full of Grey Wardens and one tiny dragon? It's just another day. No. We've been invaded. And not the fun way."

"Of course," Mahariel says, "It was just a matter of time. How many? Can we take them?"

But his face is grim. He shakes his head.

"No, my dear warden, just...no," he says, "I'm afraid our luck has finally run out."

He takes a breath.

"Fen'Harel came personally," he says, "And he's wearing one of those billowing, dark capes that all villains have. I believe that means he's serious."

He came personally. Of course he did. Why would she dare to think he told her the truth? Mahariel sits in the grass. His gaze is faraway and his face curiously blank. He stares up at the sky.

"I suppose he's already given his demands," he says at last. As if it isn't obvious enough. 

The look on Zevran's face makes her shiver.

"He wants Fenris," he says, "The others will be spared if he surrenders. I'm mostly sure it's a lie." And she is more than just surprised. What is he playing at? 

Velanna leans on her staff.

"You know, I can't even act surprised at this point," she says, "If it can get worse it does. I expect that dragon will be here any minute now."

The sad thing is she's probably right, Lavellan thinks. 

"You're probably right. He has all of the wardens, Sera, Loranil, Skinner, everyone," Zevran continues, "There was no warning. I'm not entirely convinced they didn't choose to let me go so I would find you. He knows you won't let your people die." He knows Mahariel better than he should.

There is not a word strong enough to express just how angry she is. She grips her staff so hard she feels her nails start to bend. Her knuckles are white. 

Solas can't get what he wants so he takes something else. He's doing this to punish her, to remind her. 

"Of course," Fenris says. He grins, but it is a tense grin. He is resigning himself to his death. A sacrifice for the people.

"Absolutely not," Mahariel says, "No." He's on his feet looking every bit as furious as she is. 

"It seems we have no choice," Fenris says. He laughs. The sound is dark, harsh---there is no mirth. 

"Don't we?" she asks, "Sit down, Fenris, you're not going anywhere." She straightens her spine. She stares out toward Hunter Fell and can't slow her thoughts. How dare he. 

How. Dare. He.

Any argument dies on Fenris lips when he looks at her. His eyes go wide and his breath comes in ragged, but he shuts his mouth. She is glad because if she hears one word from him, one single word, she can't be sure what she'll do.

"What do you intend to do?" Mahariel asks.

"I'm getting them back," she says, "I'm getting them all back."


	38. Once Again, A Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She needs patience.

She doesn't trust him. Despite their protests, she goes alone. 

She walks to edge of town and stands there, waiting while his soldiers stare. They are barefaced except for one and he wears Falon'Din's vallaslin. Another Dalish, she thinks, but he doesn't seem familiar.

"Fetch your master," she tells them, and they are not pleased.

The first one to try to touch her is the one wearing vallaslin. He feels flashfire and then stonefist before one of his wiser companions pulls him back. They know what will happen if they hurt her. It is not so much a fear of her as a fear of what he would do.

They look at her and they hate her. She sees it in their eyes, so dark, resentful. If only something would happen to free Fen'Harel from this. From her. If only. 

She waits longer than she expects. A tactic perhaps. Make the enemy wait to reinforce how powerless they really are. He should know better. It only makes her angrier. If that's even possible. 

Zevran is right. He is wearing one of those billowing black cloaks. The armor underneath looks like obsidian. He does not look the same as he did in the Fade, but the feel is the same. There is more magic around him. He has done something. He has taken something. Too much power that doesn't belong to him. Another Evanuris or something worse. 

His eyes are so pale they are almost white. There is no blue.

"Inquisitor," he says, "This is sooner than I expected. As I understood it, you didn't wish to see me, yet here you are." It is not easy to ignore _that_.

She grits her teeth until she can respond without snapping at him. She gives the soldiers flanking him pointed glares until he sends them away---not far enough they are out of sight, but far enough they can't hear everything clearly.

"This is not a social visit," she says, "I have come to negotiate the release of my people."

He arches an eyebrow. She resists demanding to see Sera. If he has harmed any of them, this will end badly. She won't be able to keep her temper in check.

"I have already given my terms. You have nothing else I want," he says. A lie. 

"Your terms are unacceptable. You will return my people," she says. 

"Yes, once the White Wolf is in my custody, they will be free to go," he says.

"I'm afraid that's just not possible," she says. 

"It is your only option," he says, "He has killed far too many of my people. One man in exchange for the lives of your entire company is more than generous."

And then he leans in. He whispers, "I hold all the cards, vhenan. I don't have to give you anything."

Forgewright burns hotter in her hands. It is almost painful. Is this all just a game to him? Does life mean so little to him now?

"Shall we compare the death count then? What is yours lately?" she asks, "Shall we count each individual or go according to the genocide of each race? The White Wolf has only killed some of your soldiers, but you managed to wipe out the Qunari, the humans, and the dwarves. A remarkable feat even for you."

"You can't have him," she says.

"What is your counter offer?" he asks. And he looks bored. She feels insignificant. She feels about the size of a bug. 

"If you leave now, the fighting will stop. The raids will stop. The attacks will stop. You keep to your corner of the world and we will keep to ours," she says, "Can we afford to lose more lives to this?"

He pretends to think it over, but she sees the flicker of amusement before he bothers to hide it. 

"It is a good start," he says, "I would be willing to release some of the prisoners. Perhaps one third of the wardens."

She hates how smug he is, how arrogant. They both know she can't match him in terms of magic. She has nowhere near the power he holds, and he has the bigger army. The bulk of the Inquisition was human.

And he has all the Grey Wardens except for Velanna and Mahariel. He has all the Red Jennies except for Zevran. She has nothing to bargain with but herself and she is not sure she has the strength to do that.

She looks up and she can barely recognize him. What has he done to himself? Who has he become? Is he even still in there somewhere?

"What do you want?" she asks, "If peace isn't good enough, I can't imagine what is." He will have to say it himself. She is not feeling charitable.

"Mahariel might be an acceptable trade," he says.

He is doing this on purpose. He knows just where and how to needle her. He knows what the frayed edges of her resolve look like just before they break and she is close. He knows how to read her face.

"I'm not giving you any of my people," she says, "You've taken too many of them already."

"And in exchange I have given magic back to the world. Immortality," he says. As if that is enough. The loss of life is practically immeasurable and she should be content with stronger magic and eternity. Well, he is wrong. It is not enough. She sees the faces of the dead and she feels like they are screaming at her. And it is Cassandra who is the loudest. She didn't think it would be her, she thought it would be Dorian, but no, it is Cassandra. 

Cassandra protected them all from the Chantry. She protected him, trusted him against her better judgment. She respected and even came to truly like him. And his betrayal hit her hard. 

She can almost hear her cries for justice--- _you can not let this stand._

"A very poor trade," Lavellan says, and she can not disguise her horror. He doesn't sound like himself, "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me," he says, and he is starting to lose some of his calm, "It is not an easy thing to hold the world together when both sides are pulling against it. I have done what I must. This talk is losing my interest."

"If you were still yourself you would never say that," she says, "These are people. These are lives. You should be fighting to save them. You would have before."

"Yes, well. Sera's little pranks have gone far beyond harmless. She has taken the lives of my people as well," he says, "Will you hold her accountable?"

"I offered you peace and you turned your nose up at it," she says, "Speak plainly. What do you want? What is good enough?" She can't do this. She can't. 

She grips her staff tighter, trying to keep her hands from shaking. She is offering herself up for sacrifice. It is not a pretty feeling. It is a hollow in the pit of her stomach. It is an ache. It is a loss too great she almost can't force herself to breathe.

She hates him now.

She hates him too much.

He tilts his head and she knows he knows.

"You can't give me what I want," he says, "Or won't. Either way, it is pointless to continue this. Send the Wolf or don't. It is all the same to me."

He starts to turn away---she grabs his arm, stops him. She has no choice. They need more time. 

"If it will save the lives of my people," she says, "I'll try to get it for you."

"Feigned ignorance doesn't suit you," he says, "You know what I want. I want you. I want things to be the way they were before. I want to go back to that. I want to start again."

"I want you to look at me and see a man and not a monster," he says. But how can she do that? He is a monster. He has lost himself and she has lost him too. Whatever he is now, whatever lives inside this shell, it is a hollow echo of what he should be. 

She grips him too tightly. He is going to kill Sera because she can't be convincing enough. She can't lie well enough. 

"I need more time," she says, "You hurt me. I can't just make erase that. And threatening the people I care about only makes it harder for me."

He doesn't meet her gaze. He stares at his soldiers and she can't guess what he's thinking.

"You should know, if your people attack, I will not be merciful," he says, "The time for that has passed."

"I thought as much."

"All of this was for you," he says. He is lying, but she doubts he realizes it. This was for him. It was all for him.

"Whose power did you take?" she asks. Because that is the only explanation that makes sense. He has changed himself. There is too much magic and it has corrupted him.

"In my attempts to restore the Vir Dirthara, I sought Dirthamen's orb, but he has hidden it too well. I found Falon'Din's instead. And in the Deep Roads, in the temple you spoke of, I found June's. You would have found it if you had taken more time to search," he says, "But that is all. It has not changed me. I am still me. You will see that."

It is like the world is breaking again. She had expected Andruil or Elgar'nan but not Falon'Din. That some of his people kept that vallaslin makes sense now. Why did it have to be Falon'Din? She has to fight to keep her stomach from emptying all over his pretty armor.

She does not want to go back. She can't, but she has no choice. She can't let them die, not when she can save them. They are all she has left. 

She won't let him take them.

Her breath comes in shaky. Shallow.

"If you free them," she says, "If you agree to leave them safe and alive and in peace, I'll go with you. Willingly. I have already spoken with Mahariel. He has accepted these terms. There will be no more fighting."

Until they have a way to fight him, she thinks, a real way. Until then. 

He lets her stew in the silence for what feels like a full minute. 

"Willingly," he says.

"Yes," she says and it takes everything in her to keep from looking away. She wants to hit him, hurt him.

"Very well," he says, "I accept these terms." And then he does look at her and it makes her skin crawl. His face is that damned expressionless mask. He is blank. He is unnerving. He is wholly unfamiliar. He is not Solas anymore.

How could she have missed it? Falon'Din and June. All this time. 

"You will speak with Sera," he says, "Because I do not believe she will agree. If she or any of your people break this trust, there is nothing you can do or say that will save them."

He takes her hand. She doubts he will let her speak with Sera in private, and she can't explain what they intend to do, not yet. That task will have fall to Mahariel. 

Sera is not known for her patience.

"We shall leave in the morning," he says.

She feels like she's splintering.


	39. Shards and Splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does not want to leave.

Sera takes it better than expected. She makes a few rude noises and a couple of unintelligible grunts. She is chained instead of tied, and her chains are dotted with unfamiliar glyphs. When Lavellan touches them, they both get a nasty shock.

Sera laughs.

The guards usher her out. 

Trouble is nowhere to be seen. Cole doesn't appear, no matter how much she wants him to, and Solas pays her little attention when she leaves to speak with Mahariel. He is unconcerned. He knows she will return.

Mahariel insists this is a terrible idea. 

"This is worse than one of mine," he says, and no one disagrees, "Are you sure you want to do this, lethallan?"

But it's already done. There is no going back.

"He's taken two foci that I know of," she says, "June and Falon'Din, Merrill will have an idea where to start. Between you, Velanna, and her, I think we have our bases covered." It all hinges on them. Merrill knows the most about the Evanuris---aside from the Elvhen. And Velanna has the benefit of knowing both elvhen lore and Grey Warden secrets. If anyone can puzzle it all out, it will have to be them.

Velanna gives her what can only be described as a grudging nod and that is all. 

"This is going to fail," Velanna says, but there's a hint of a smile, "Spectacularly."

She's not wrong.

Fenris sits off to the side, arms loose around his knees---his hands are clasped, his neck bent and he is missing all of his usual hatred. When he looks up, once, she sees his eyes. She thinks she sees guilt, a flicker of embarrassment, perhaps, and it is strange. 

She doesn't know how to react to the change so she doesn't. 

 

"I don't think I like the look of that staff," Solas says.

He stares at it as if it's a venomous snake, coiled and ready to strike. He has commandeered one of the rooms to use as his own for the night. The wardens and the Jennies are still tied and kept under guard. Even with the truce, he will not relent.

She does not like the way he looks at Forgewright.

"That's unfortunate because it's mine and I'm keeping it," she says.

"Where did you get it?" he asks. He doesn't try to mask his annoyance. 

She doesn't expect him to remove his armor for the night, but he does. He strips down to his underclothes and crawls into bed. He lays there, waiting while she tries to decide if she should answer him.

Finally, she says, "It was a gift." From a spirit named Trouble. Because that always ends well. 

"You could make a nicer one---" Could she, though? Could she really?

"I could," she says, "But I like this one. Don't you dare make it disappear." She wouldn't put it past him. She is more drawn to it now that she knows he doesn't like it.

"Very well."

And then he adds, "You should try to get some sleep. We're leaving early." 

He turns onto his side, his back to her. And it is clear he just means sleep. She is not too stupid to try anything. This is a test. He is not in any real danger anyway. If she did hurt him, his magic would heal him.

What had she agreed to? She was supposed to try to be what she was before she knew the truth. What would the young, naive version of herself do now?

She slips out of her robes, but leaves on her underclothes. The young version doesn't get a vote because she was handsy and foolish. She would have taken this opportunity to tease him and he would have responded in kind.

She climbs into bed beside him and tries to make herself slide her arm around his waist. She doesn't really want to touch him. She wants to shove him out of bed and onto the floor. 

He sighs when she relents and pulls herself flush against his back. He takes her hand and rests it over his heart. 

"I am glad you are here," he says. 

She is not.

 

She is alone when she wakes. When she ventures out, she sees Trouble with the wardens. It is sitting, pretending to be tied up. 

Solas has a strange look on his face. 

"I see you've met Trouble," she says.

"It has stolen a rather sizable number of pants from my soldiers," he says, sounding confused, "And it has been sitting there, like that, all morning."

She is surprised the Elvhen bothered to bring any. They wouldn't be able to wear the pants under their skin tight armor. She wants to laugh. Good for you, Trouble, good.

It is stupid they kept the wardens bound even after the agreement was reached. The wardens can't fight him, they pose no real danger right now, so she wonders at his motives. There must be more than a little spite behind it. He isn't afraid.

"This is the spirit I told you about," she says. He sucks in a startled breath.

"That is not a spirit," he says, "Not really."

"What do you mean?" she asks. What else could it be?

"It is a fragment from several souls," he says, "Two splinters fused together, perhaps out of desperation. It used to have a body."

Trouble is grinning and it is eerie. It looks like a spirit. It acts like a spirit. It doesn't seem fragmented. She doesn't want to believe she has been talking to a dead thing.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"I am positive. I can see the threads knitting it together, rather crudely---it tried to repair itself," he says, "Probably soon after it died. Whatever happened to shatter it, there wasn't enough left for it to pull itself back together. It latched on to the pieces of another soul---." And his voice trails off, the look in his eye suddenly thoughtful.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I think---I think that is a piece of an archdemon," he says, "And the Grey Warden who killed it."

She wants to laugh because that is silly. That doesn't happen. But Solas has his serious face on and he would know. As much time as he has spent in the Fade talking to spirits, he would know if something was strange. He has no reason to lie.

Her stomach flip flops.

Trouble gave her Forgewright, but where did Trouble _find_ Forgewright? Hunter Fell is the city where an archdemon died and the third blight ended. The death toll was staggering. So many people lost. 

But Trouble is only dangerous to pants.

"That is not an archdemon," she says. He is too friendly.

"Not now, no. The fragment it grew from would have been very small. It is harmless. I can only sense the echo of the Blight. This form is not corrupted," he says, and then he turns to Trouble, "Why are you sitting like that? You aren't a prisoner." 

"I want to sit with my friends," Trouble says, "Can you make fire?"

Now, Solas seems amused. A piece of an archdemon sitting with wardens and calling them friends---there is a certain something to that. It must come from the piece of the Grey Warden's soul. 

"I can," he says, "Why do you ask?"

"I need to burn something."

She almost chokes on her tongue. The Elvhen are never finding their pants.

"I can help you with that," she says.

"No. We have to go," Solas reminds her. As if she could forget _that_.

Her amusement dries up. 

"Ask Merrill," she tells Trouble, "I think she would enjoy helping you."

 

Zevran is outside attempting to talk a number of the soldiers out of what is no doubt their last pair of pants. When he does that horrifying eyebrow waggle, she thinks one of them is going to stab him. Well, try anyway, and fail. Zevran is more than a match for them. 

Mahariel, Fenris, and Velanna won't return until the soldiers leave. They are too tempting a prize. 

Zevran pretends he's only just now noticing her. He jolts a little and turns, a grin on his face. She braces herself.

"Inquisitor, you are looking lovely this morning," he says. Solas' hand is on her arm, fingers tightening in response. She doesn't expect it. He is not usually a jealous man.

"Thank you, Zevran." And when he looks at Solas, she feels a stab of fear. Please don't, she thinks. But Zevran is not one to shy away from the inappropriate. He is too good at sizing people up and knowing just how far to push their limits.

"You are looking quite lovely as well, my dear Dread Wolf," he says, "I hope you aren't leaving so soon. Ellana was supposed to invite you to the orgy we're having in your honor. Since you have taken all of us, we thought it fitting we return the favor, yes?"

"No," Solas says. His scowl is impressive, even for him.

"Not interested? A pity. That cloak would look quite fetching on my floor." And he winks. 

Winks. At the Dread Wolf.

She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. Stop, Zevran, she thinks, for the love of the gods, stop. Solas' grip tightens again and it is almost painful.

"Don't," she hisses, and she shoots him a warning glare. He relaxes his grip. He smiles but his smile does not put her at ease.

Zevran has already lost interest. He turns back to the soldiers he was pestering and starts again.

Solas puts her behind him, on the back of his horse. That she doesn't get one of her own darkens her mood considerably. She wraps her arms around his waist and tries to ignore the feel of the saddle digging into her. It is not going to be comfortable. She hopes whatever eluvian he used to get here is close. She doesn't want to spend much time like this, wrapped around him, constantly jarred by the movements of the horse.

It is a Dalish All-Bred, she realizes. She would have expected a Hart or an Anderfel Courser or an Imperial Warmblood---better breeds by most standards. The Dalish All-Bred is familiar. It is highly prized when trained properly.

It is Dalish.

It is unwaveringly loyal.

It is not going to obey her if, after the wardens are safe, she's able to get it and herself away from him. It will throw her if she tries. If it is truly Solas' horse. She suspects his choice was deliberate.

Only a fraction of his soldiers are gathering their things and preparing for travel. The rest remain where they are. They are staying, she realizes, probably until they know for sure she won't go back on her word. And how long will that take? She wonders. Days? Weeks? Too long.

Solas squeezes her hand before he takes the reins. 

"I have something new to show you," he says, "I think you'll like it."

She doesn't answer.


	40. The World We Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is stretching himself too thin.

Whatever he wants to show her, he changes his mind and tries to pawn her off on Abelas when they reach the city. Abelas does not look any happier than she is about it.

"No," she says, "I'm going with you."

His whole attitude has changed. Gone is the benevolent, long suffering lover and in his place is the short tempered, impatient old man. He snaps at her. He looks through her instead of at her. And she suspects he plans to continue this for far longer than her patience will last.

She is not letting him stuff her back into pretty drawer somewhere to wait for his temper to subside.

"Where are _we_ going?" she asks.

"You are not coming with me," he says. 

"You wanted me, ma sa'lath," she says, "You get to live with your choice. I'm going with you and that is final."

His scowl deepens. It seems he has lost his tolerance for being told what to do. Good, she thinks, because it will make needling him that much easier.

"No, you are not."

"Either I go with you or I consider this a breech in our agreement and I leave," she says.

"That is not how this works."

"It is now." 

"No. Stay with Abelas. We will talk when I return."

No, they will not talk then. She grips Forgewright and her spine feels like steel. She is not leaving him alone so he can sneak off to break their agreement in secret. If he's going to go after her people, he's going to have to do it right in front of her. 

She is not letting him kill Fenris.

She is not letting him kill Sera.

She is not letting him kill anyone.

She is not letting this go.

"If I stay with Abelas, I'm going to seduce him, thoroughly and completely," she says, "Consider this fair warning."

He snorts, and Abelas makes a horrified sound before he can stop himself. He steps away. He looks like he would rather chew off his own arm than follow her down into that mistake. She can't blame him. Seducing the Dread Wolf's favorite sentinel is almost as terrible as seducing the dread wolf, himself.

"Abelas is not easily seduced."

"Neither were you, if I recall correctly," she says, "And now, look at where we are."

She isn't certain but she thinks he pales a little. He is right though. Abelas is entirely immune to her charms. She doesn't like him either so it usually works out quite well, but she is willing to put it all aside if Solas is going to treat her like a doll.

"I'm feeling charitable," she says, "I'll let you decide. Would you rather endure my presence, watch me leave you, or catch me seducing your most trusted adviser?"

His jaw tenses and his hands are fists, but he doesn't hit her. She almost wants him to because that would give her another opening to leave. He'd have a difficult time arguing against it if he hurt her. 

"Fine," he says, and Abelas looks relieved, "You may join me, but I'm not above locking you up, should you prove to be a hindrance. Do not get in my way." 

It is hard not to yell at him after that, but she tamps it down. She takes a breath and tries to be reasonable. It is difficult. 

"That sounds fair," she says. Fuck you, she thinks. 

He stares at her as if she said it out loud instead of just in her thoughts. But he is not a mind reader and it is more likely he is reading her face. She should do something about that. She should at least try. 

"Why did you bring me here if you don't want me around?" she asks.

But he won't tell her. 

"You will need better armor," he says, instead, "And a better staff."

She bristles. She will concede one point. She does need better armor. 

"I do not need a better staff," she says, "Stop it." He is not taking Forgewright.

"There is something wrong with it," he says.

"There is something wrong with you," she counters.

He is tense and angry and ready to snap, but then, all at once, his shoulders slump and there are dark circles around his eyes. He looks like he isn't sleeping enough. He probably isn't. 

It makes her worry and she does not want to worry about him.

"Whatever you're planning," she says, "I think it can wait." It can wait forever, she thinks, and you can stop all of this nonsense.

"I'm sorry," he says, "You're right. It can wait. We have time to make your armor." He looks terrible.

She is not going to feel bad for him. She refuses. She tries to, but somehow, seeing him like this throws it all out the window. She does feel bad for him. Even knowing how close he came to killing her friends. Even then.

Abelas finally makes his escape. He pretends he is eager to find the armorer for her, but they both know he wants to put as much distance between them as possible. She is not offended. She doesn't want to seduce him. 

"Would you like to see something special while we wait?" Solas asks.

She can't speak. Her voice has died in her throat, but she nods. 

 

He takes her through an eluvian in order to show her. She expects another city or the Vir Dirthara. She doesn't expect this.

The island floats. 

In the sky. 

She doesn't believe it until she looks over the edge and sees the sharp drop. He keeps a hand on her arm until she adjusts. It is wonderful and horrible all at the same time.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

She doesn't know what to say. The air is colder and thinner than she likes. They are too high above the world and this is not a dream.

She is a little alarmed that the sight of her, open mouthed and speechless, makes him smile.

No. She does not like this strange, floating island in the sky. She is terrified.

"There are only two ways to reach this place, by dragon or by eluvian," he says, "I hope that will make it a little more difficult for uninvited guests to reach us." And then he pulls her away from the edge. 

There is a house. It is simple by comparison, only two floors and small. It doesn't float. 

"I must apologize for the state of everything," he says, "It was going to be a surprise, but you left before I could finish it. The furnishings are a bit sparse."

He built a house on a floating island in the sky and apologizes for the lack of fancy couches? He is insane.

The stone work is Elvhen. There are pointed archways and stained glass windows of Dalish designs. There are a few, hardy trees and a square of land that looks like it has been sectioned for a garden---a small dwarven statue sits at the center of it all. 

And he has put more care into the furnishings than he's pretending. There is an eclectic mix of styles---nothing matches because he knows how she feels about that. She recognizes some of the furniture. He has saved one of Blackwall's chairs. One of Josephine's quilts is folded and draped over the back of it.

It is clear he has put real thought into everything.

"How did you do all of this?" she asks. But she means to ask why instead. It is beautiful. It is a breathtaking feat. But it is also horribly impractical and frivolous and not something she would expect from him.

"It is very old magic," he says. It looks like the Fade, structures defying the laws of nature. 

"So I gathered," she says.

And then, because it is so quiet, she asks, "Are we alone?" She is unnerved and her stomach feels strange. Following him here does not feel wise.

He nods.

"It my sanctuary," he says, "It is meant to be _our_ sanctuary. The way is barred. No one else is welcome."

She doubts that very much, "Not even Abelas?" He fails to hide the flicker of displeasure when she says that name. He has not forgotten her threat, and she is surprised at how much it seems to have bothered him. 

"Not even Abelas," he says.

"You're not going to leave me here?" she asks. Trap her here. Strand her here in another prison, while he runs off to do something horrible.

"You can come and go as you wish," he says, "I won't leave you here. I agreed you could join me, and I meant it. You have my word." But what is his word worth? He has gone back on it before, knowing him, he will again. 

When he goes back inside, he leaves her clutching Forgewright and staring into the clouds.

 

He is still weary, but he looks a little less drawn, a little more relaxed, as the day passes.

He sketches in the evening, settling on the overstuffed couch in front of the fireplace. He surrounds himself with sheets of paper and charcoal and chaos, and when she tries to sneak a peek, he smiles and shows her. 

Some of it is for the Vir Dirthara. New pathways and buildings, a new arrangement of the shelves---he is also reorganizing the categories. 

Sandwiched between the actual work pieces are pictures of her. 

They are different than his stylized pieces and he is better than she expected. He captures her likeness perfectly. He doesn't try to mask her imperfections. He draws her as she is. 

She can not hide the smile that tugs at her lips, no matter how she tries. She always did enjoy watching him draw.

"It has been too long since we last took time for ourselves," he says, "We should do this more often."

She knows she shouldn't, but she sits beside him anyway. She can't resist when he's like this. She wants it to last. She wants him to be like this always.

She watches him draw.

She means to ask him about Morrigan but she forgets. 

She means to ask him where they're going when the armorer finishes her armor, but she forgets about that too. 

She sits in silence and watches his fingers curl around the charcoal and she wonders why this couldn't have been enough for him. Why couldn't he have been content to sit and grow old beside her? Why wasn't she enough?

She lets him kiss her cheek.

She wishes she had something to drink.


	41. Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is frost on his pillow.

She isn't sure why she wakes at first, but then she hears him. 

"Solas?" she asks. 

He is curled up on his side, shivering, and mumbling. He has kicked the blankets off himself and onto her. Whatever he is saying, it is incomprehensible. There might be elvhen syllables in there somewhere, but they are slurred and jumbled. 

There is frost on the sheets around him and creeping up his fingertips. When she touches his shoulder, he feels like ice. 

She throws the edge of the blanket back over him when he doesn't wake.

"Solas," she says, and she tries again. 

She slips an arm around his waist and pulls him back against her chest. It is about as pleasant as trying to embrace an ice sculpture but she'd rather shiver a little now than freeze to death in her sleep. He is so much more powerful than he was, it is not outside the realm of possibilities.

She does not want to freeze to death.

"Solas, wake up," she says. She pours as much heat into her skin as she dares. She does not have his endless reserves. If he doesn't wake up soon, she doesn't know what she'll do.

He catches hold of her wrist and shudders. Still fast asleep, he turns. His lips are tinged blue. There is even frost on his eyelashes.

She is tired and this is a little more frightening than she'd like to admit. 

"Solas!" she shouts, and finally, finally, he opens his eyes.

He stares at her for a long moment, confused. He is still shivering. 

"You were casting in your sleep," she says, "What's wrong?"

Embarrassment sweeps across his face, but he doesn't pull away. He burrows closer to her warmth. It doesn't seem like he's going to answer her.

"It was just a dream," he says. 

But that's not what she means and he knows it. His icy hands slip under her shirt to rest against her back. The shock of it almost makes her push him away. She should. Especially if he's going to lie to her. 

"Do you have many of these dreams?" she asks. Where you lose control in the waking world, she thinks, where your body bleeds magic out around you. 

He tries to kiss her, but she turns her head. He grazes her cheek, his lips still too cold to be pleasant. He sighs.

"No," he says, firmly, "Not many." As if she can't recognize one of his lies by now.

And then he does kiss her. He pulls the warmth out of her until she is left shivering just as hard as he is. Only then does he stop. Only then does he roll onto his back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

She is glad he doesn't push for more. 

"You aren't really in control," she says, "Are you?" 

"I am fine," he says. But he is not fine. He has stolen too much power and he has pushed himself too hard. As ancient as he is, as powerful, he is still just a man. A stupid, selfish man.

"You need to stop," she says, "Whatever you're doing, just stop."

"You don't have to come with me," he snaps, "I recall insisting you stay behind. Perhaps we should revisit the discussion." And perhaps, perhaps she should push him off the edge of his stupid, floating island. Perhaps she should leave him here and go back through the eluvian---perhaps she should shatter it and leave him stranded. Yes, she thinks, perhaps that would be for the best. The Grey Wardens and the Red Jennies are probably far enough away from Hunter Fell by now. Maybe they are lucky. Maybe Morrigan isn't following them.

When she flings the blankets back, he grabs her arm.

"I'm sorry, stay," he says, "Please."

When she hesitates, he lets go.

"You are right, in a sense," he says, "My control is not what it should be, but now, everything will be fine. The fighting is over, you're here, I don't have to split my focus. I should not have snapped at you. Please stay."

He tries to smile.

"Things will be different," he says, "I promise." But she is afraid. 

She shuts her eyes and tries to breathe. This is too hard, and all for what? Do Mahariel's people even care what she's doing for them? Does it matter that being this close to him, seeing him like this, pretending---it is just one more impossible task. Does it even matter? Some of them probably believe this is better than she deserves. Fenris, for one. Velanna. 

Solas is not in control and he has more power than the average elvhen god. 

Her chest hurts and she can't seem to get enough air. She isn't strong enough. She has to be and they are counting on her but she just isn't. 

"I'm not going anywhere," she says. It takes everything she has left just to say it. She doesn't know how she pulls the blankets back over her or how she settles back against her pillow. 

"I am sorry," he says, and his voice breaks. She doesn't want to see his face. She can hear him and that's too much. 

"So am I," she says.


	42. Always The Same Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She should know better by now.

The next time she wakes, he is wrapped around her, one leg nudging between hers. His hand has worked its way under her shirt, his fingers splayed across the flat expanse of her stomach. His lips brush the back of her neck.

He is not cold now. He is warm---and hard against her.

"I missed waking up beside you," he says in a voice that is still thick with sleep.

"Feeling better, then?" she asks. She is still uneasy about him and his magic. No matter what he thinks, sleep doesn't fix everything. They have to talk.

She feels the length of him, pressing against the curve of her ass. He slides her shirt off her shoulder, kisses her there.

"I am much better," he whispers. 

The hand on her stomach trails lower. His fingers skim along her smalls, along her groin and lower. He caresses her leg, eases it up, giving himself better access.

He breathes against her neck. The ragged sound makes her shiver. 

Her thoughts are racing. 

She should stop him, yell at him. They need to talk about last night and his magic and whatever damned fool mission he's pursing. She can't let this go. 

She wants to. Gods know she does, but she can't this time. 

She needs real answers. 

"Solas, please," she says, "We need to talk---"

"I don't want to talk," he whispers. 

"We have to," she says.

"But not now," he says, rocking against her.

He groans and every inch of her feels suddenly like its on fire. 

"I need you," he whispers, "Now, vhenan."

She almost doesn’t notice when his fingers slip under her smalls, but then she feels the calloused fingers brushing her clit. Feather light, barely touching, maddeningly soft. He circles it. Teasing. Gauging her reactions. 

You are angry at him, she tells herself, and this changes nothing.

She gasps, arching against him when his touch stops being quite so gentle. This is not talking. This is not even close to talking.

He slides a finger down, eases it inside---first one and then another. He grinds his palm against her. She is writhing despite her attempts to maintain some semblance of control. She is making the most embarrassing, obscene sounds and she can't stop. 

She feels him smiling, lips still pressed to her skin. She is already slick and ready for him, and she is having trouble remembering why that's a bad thing.

"Aren't we supposed to go somewhere today?" she asks. She is breathless. She sounds ridiculous. She reaches back, grips him through his smalls. She is going to regret this later. 

"We have time," he says and he moves against her, harder this time, insistent. 

His fingers are wet when he pulls out, when he bats her hand away to free himself. And then he's rolling her onto her stomach and taking her. As wet as she is, she doesn't expect to be this tight. But he is thick and the stretch is almost painful. 

But every time he moves, her belly coils just a little tighter. She sees sparks when she closes her eyes. She doesn't want him to stop. 

How long has it been? 

She is already so close. 

"Solas," she says, and she can't remember what she means to say after that. There was something and it was probably important but she can feel him throbbing inside her---that wonderful, terrible vein. She is trapped under him and she wants to move. She needs to, has to.

He works an arm under her and gets her on her knees. It's as if he's reading her mind, but she doesn't care. She feels his fingers on her hips and she only has a second to brace herself before he thrusts. The force of it sends her forward, clawing at the sheets.

She reaches down with her left hand---the new hand, and she touches herself with it. For the first time. She sets a furious pace. She has to catch up---she has to because she is close but not close enough. 

He shifts, alters the angle just enough. He touches something inside her and her mind goes blank. There is nothing in the world but him and this and she is coiled so tight, she feels like she's going to break. 

His pace stutters and all at once he's coming. His orgasm triggers hers and she is clenching down while he spills inside her. It is too sudden. Her knees feel loose, her muscles insubstantial. She feels boneless.

When she collapses, he follows her down. He is still hard enough inside her, riding out the last wave of her orgasm. He doesn't pull out yet. He nips her ear. 

She is fighting to catch her breath.

"Ar lath ma," he says.

He waits---she knows what he wants to hear, but she can't say it. She won't. 

 

She doesn't recognize the horse at first because of the spirit. It has filled in the missing parts and it looks more like a living, breathing creature. But underneath the silvery glow, it is the same steed. It is Griffin.

It is the Bog Unicorn. 

Her breath catches and she doesn't know what to say. The last time she saw him, he was trampling Solas' archers. Then, when the sky started to burn, she thought he was dead along with everyone else. 

He is not alive, but he is here. He looks at her and recognizes her. He is another friend she thought she'd lost. 

"I thought you would like to ride your own horse," Solas says and he is grinning. 

Griffin nudges her hand and when he whinnies it doesn't sound like an eerie screech. It sounds alive. He sounds whole.

"Where did you find him?" she asks.

"Skyhold," he says, "I think he was waiting for you."

Griffin looks at her with eyes of silver light. Solas is right. He would have gone home to wait for her. But for how long? He would have worried when no one returned, when he found only the dead bodies of the stable hands and Master Dennet. There would only have been a few left alive, the elves who weren't loyal to Solas. They couldn't have buried everyone. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," she says, and she strokes his head. There is a hole where the rusted sword used to be. Someone has finally removed it.

Griffin bumps her hand with his nose as if to say he understands. 

"Thank you, Solas," she says, "This is better than anything I could have hoped for."

When she looks up, he is staring at her as if she is the only one left in the world. His grin is gone. His gaze is soft and warm and he is going to kiss her if she doesn't move away. The morning comes rushing back and her body is too hot. Her heart clenches. 

Why did she think she should come with him? 

She should not have slept with him. Again. The same mistake, always. What is wrong with her? Next time will be different. Next time, she'll stop it. Always next time.

This is going to go badly.

Griffin shifts and he is suddenly between them. The moment breaks and she can breathe again. She sends him a silent thank you as she pats his shoulder. 

"I am glad you're happy," Solas says, and he is still staring at her as if the Bog Unicorn isn't there, watching, listening. She knows what he's thinking. 

Griffin huffs when Solas tries to touch his back. He turns his head as if to bite him, but hesitates at the last second, as if sensing what a bad idea that would be. Instead, he angles away from Solas' touch, keeping himself still wedged between them. Solas doesn't seem to notice.

She expects Ableas to join them or a small number of the guards, but the stable hands only bring out the two horses. The Bog Unicorn for her and the Dalish All-Bred for Solas. It will be just the two of them then, she realizes. There will be no one to interrupt and no reason for him to behave. 

Perhaps she shouldn't have threatened to seduce Abelas. 

She is uneasy.

The armor he commissioned for her matches his---dragonbone and black Tevinter silk in that skin tight, terrible Elvhen style he is so fond of. They look like a matched set and it is not an endearing thing. It is annoying.

Embarrassing.

Stupid.

She did the same thing before the Veil fell, before the Arbor Wilds, before Halamshiral, before he left her in Crestwood, bare faced and confused. She was embarrassed then but after the Exalted Council---there is no word to describe just how mortified she was---still is.

"We should be on our way," she says, because Solas is still staring at her and she is angry again. Angry for too many reasons. 

"Yes," he agrees, and finally, thankfully, he turns away. 

He hasn't told her where they're going or how long they'll be gone. She doesn't know what they'll face or just how dangerous it will be, but she suspects it's something she isn't going to like. Maybe he isn't hunting the Grey Wardens, but if that's the case, it will be something worse. 

And what is worse than Solas breaking his word and hunting her people? What is left for him to do? What could possibly draw him away, alone?

Is he still looking for Dirthamen's orb? Is the power he already has not enough?

She runs her fingers along Griffin's sides and tells herself she's letting her worries run away with her again. He said it himself---the fighting is over, he doesn't have to split his focus. He can stop. 

He doesn't need any more power. What he has is enough.

Isn't it?


	43. Vir Atish'an

The horses do not go easily or happily through the eluvians. And Solas leads them through three before they are finished.

"Now are you going to tell me where we're going?"

She asks when they stop for the night. It's an old campsite. The fire pit is cold and full of ash. She knows it has been some time since someone last stayed here because the weeds have taken over just about everything. 

Still, it doesn't take too long to clear a place to sleep. 

Solas moves his horse to the far end of the camp, away from Griffin. No matter how well trained the poor thing is is, it startles when it gets too close to the Bog Unicorn. It is afraid. 

She thinks they might be in the Exalted Plains but she doesn't recognize any of the landmarks. 

"Well?" she asks again when he makes no attempts to answer. He settles too close beside her. His skin is cool again, despite the heat. 

"You're going to be angry with me," he says.

"Why?"

"I don't really know where we're going," he says, "We're following a very old trail and the land has changed. Things are not as I remember them. The trail could lead anywhere. Or it may lead nowhere. It is possible we may find nothing. It has been so long."

She isn't angry because he is uncertain. She's angry because she doesn't believe him. 

"You can't really expect me to believe that," she says.

He shrugs.

"I don't," he says, "But it is the truth."

She doesn't know how to respond to that. She leans back on her elbows and stares into the fire. 

"I don't understand why you won't just tell me what you're looking for," she says.

"Because I don't want to fight with you right now. We have been apart for so long." He tries to smooth a strand of her hair back behind her ear but she pulls away. 

Apart, she thinks, as if she'd just been away on a long vacation. As if she hadn't had to slip out in the middle of the night and run from him. As if his guards hadn't drawn their swords and tried to stop her and died because of it.

"Knowing I'll object and doing it anyway is only going to make the inevitable fight worse," she says, "You know that, don't you?"

He tries to kiss her cheek but she pushes him away. Does he even care what she thinks?

"You're not even listening to me," she says, "Stop."

He sinks back, leans on his elbows. He tries to look apologetic but his gaze is too wistful. He lingers too long on the line of her throat, the curve where it meets her shoulder. A spot he never fails to mark with his teeth, his lips---

She shakes herself. No. Not today. She is stronger than this. She sits up straighter and tries not to remember how he feels.

"I'm listening, emma lath," he says, "Ma vhenan."

"Ma sa'lath," he whispers.

It does not have the desired effect. She picks up a stick and stirs the ashes in the fire pit and she does not melt. She burns. She is furious and he is a tit. One more word and she's going to set his literal pants on fire. 

One. More. Word.

He sighs and shuts his eyes.

"It has been a long day," he says, "Forgive me?"

"I'll think about it," she says, and for tall of three seconds, she does. The answer is no, though. It is not good enough to ask for forgiveness when he has no intention to change his behavior. He will just do it all over and she will feel disrespected again and nothing will change.

When he opens his eyes, he does look apologetic. Genuinely so this time. 

 

The trail ends suddenly. He stops mid-day on the second day.

There is a temple, he tells her, buried in the earth. What he's looking for is here. She is hit with a terrible sense of foreboding. There are many things he could be seeking in an old temple and none of the possibilities are comforting.

"Whose temple is this?" she asks.

He touches the ground and smiles. He doesn't answer. There is no way inside.

"Solas," she says.

But then his eyes are glowing and the ground is shaking. She can barely stay upright. She stumbles and the earth splits open. Elvhen statues and ruined archways emerge. She sees the entrance, choked with dirt and shattered stone. She sees fallen pillars and rotten scraps of cloth that might have been proud banners once. She can't make out what they were meant to depict.

Only then does he stand.

He rights the fallen pillars with another spell. He clears the stone and dirt from the entrance. When there is a path, finally, he stops. 

He is not even winded. 

He is not even tired.

He looks the same as he does after a few hours of reading or sitting quietly and doing nothing important. She was already unnerved, but this makes it worse. She can't pretend Mahariel has a chance against him. She can't pretend she does either.

His horse shivers and paws at the ground, terrified, and Griffin is not doing much better. The temple is badly damaged. The floors are cracked and uneven. She doesn't recognize any of the statues, the features are shattered. They are crumbling to dust. Any artifacts left would have been destroyed after that display. There can't be anything left.

"What is this place?" she asks. She stands beside him. 

"If I'm right, it's one of Sylaise's holdings," he says, "Her priests destroyed it to protect what remained of her power."

She shoots him a sideways glance. What remained of Sylaise's power---is that what this is? Is that why he's here? Her mouth is too dry. She tastes bitter, bitter bile. 

"They did a marvelous job of it," she says, "There isn't much left." 

"Yes, so it would seem," he says.

Please don't, she thinks and she hopes he's wrong and what he's looking for is long gone. She leans on Forgewright but then he's striding into the ruins as if he owns them. With his damned long legs, it means she has to jog after him to catch up. The pace is uncomfortable.

"You don't need more power," she says. Solas pretends he doesn't hear her. He follows the broken path to ruined stairs. It is dark and the air is damp. It smells like wet earth that hasn't had a chance to dry out again, like mold and rotting vegetation. The stones are slick beneath her feet. 

She is out of breath. Again. 

Always.

"You're not listening," she says, "If this is about taking Sylaise's power, you need to stop."

"That is not what this is about," he says.

"Then what is this about?"

He doesn't smile when he turns, when he looks at her. He touches her face and his expression is grave. His hands are much colder than they should be. She shivers and she is reminded of how cold he was, how he lost control of his magic. That is what this feels like. 

"I know what your Grey Wardens are planning, vhenan," he says, "They are foolish and too eager to destroy themselves. You are poised to follow. That's what this is about. I am protecting you. I'm protecting all of you from yourselves."

She recoils.

"What?" she asks, but that is all that will come out. 

"I will not let you toy with dangerous magic," he says, "I will not watch it destroy you."

He turns back to the darkness and the ruined stairs. It is choked with more than stone. It is choked with mud and thick, deep roots. And when she summons a wisp she sees what else it is choked with.

There are pale bones trapped in the mud. Skulls with gaping eye sockets, bodies shattered and crushed, arms still reaching out for help that never came. These are all that remains of Sylaise's followers, her priests, and her slaves.

She can feel something just beyond it all, the faintest hum of power. It sits on the very edge of her awareness---she only senses it because she's here with him and she can't afford to miss anything. She forgets to breathe.

"I suspect I am right after all," he says, and now he is smiling. There is a loud sucking sound, a rushing of earth as the mud recedes. It parts before him, sinking back into the walls, through the cracks in the stones. Everything shifts and the stairs even out. They are steep and it is going to be a chore to navigate them.

She doesn't want to follow him. She wants to go back outside where there is plenty of light and the air isn't quite so thick. But when he starts down, she follows. She doesn't hesitate. 

There is a light in the distance and that section of the temple seems less damaged than the rest of it. There is less debris. There is less mud and less dirt. 

Solas stops at the bottom of the stairs. His arm comes up to block her way.

"Stay here," he says.

"No," she says.

His face twists and his jaw locks. Annoyance and anger war for dominance and annoyance wins, but he lowers his arm. He sighs.

"Very well, but stay behind me," he says. And clearly, he has forgotten who she is.

 

Inside the circle of light are three elves. Blue light connects them, surrounds them--and at the center of it all is a glowing, floating orb. They are like Inquisitor Ameridan, trapped in their own spell.

Her heart stutters. She didn't really think they'd find anything.

The orb is not similar to the one that marked her hand. Even from this distance, she can see the difference. The pattern on the surface is more like flames than swirls---Sylaise who gave us fire, she thinks. It is not surprising. 

It is crafted from a different material than the orb of Fen'Harel. It looks like crystal, pale blue and translucent. It is like a rare gem cut and crafted from the very magic that protects it. It is beautiful.

The elves do not move. They don't seem to notice her or Solas at all. They must have been desperate even before they cast their spell, because they are pale and thin and filthy. They are spotted with dark blood. Their hair is lank and greasy. They are scratched and bruised. 

They should not be alive, but they are. They can't be, but they are. 

The magic protecting them stutters and blinks out. She expects the orb to fall but it doesn't, it continues to float. One of the elves collapses, his body disintegrating. Another sinks to her knees, drained but fighting to stay upright. The third looks at Solas, and she can read his fear.

He tries to hide it behind a sneer, but he can't. He is more afraid than he is angry. 

"Venavis, Fen'Harel," he says "Garas quenathra?" Why have you come? Why are you here?

He knows him. He knows his face. 

"Ir abelas," Solas says, and she can not follow the rest. Whatever he says makes the man, who she assumes is a priest, pale. The woman beside him, struggling to regain her footing, hisses a curse. When she is able to move, she starts to move toward the orb. 

She turns to stone.

The priest steps back, his eyes going wide as he tears his gaze from Solas to look at his companion. Lavellan knows that magic. She remembers it well. 

The priest shouts and he is shaking, but Solas doesn't seem to care. He is striding towards the orb, his shoulders squared, his back too straight---it is as if the orb is already his. He doesn't care that he has just turned that woman to stone over an artifact he doesn't need.

When Solas reaches for the orb, priest looks at _her_. His expression shifts. There is still fear in his eyes but it is wild now. She has seen that look a thousand times before, always on the faces of the desperate. She knows what it means. She knows what he's going to do.

She steps back.

"Dirthara-ma," he says but she is already casting a barrier around herself. He lashes out, magic erupting in the air around her. 

She doesn't know the spell but she feels the heat when it rips through her defenses. Forgewright's flame flares, burns brighter. By the time she counters, the priest is already stone. 

The orb falls to the ground but Solas is too busy staring at her to notice. He looks concerned.

"Are you alright?" he asks. 

She is. Surprisingly. The attack seemed stronger than it was---the brunt of it was spent on her barrier and the priest was too weakened to follow through. She is almost disappointed. She didn't really want to fight him, but to have Solas swoop in like that, it is insulting.

She did not need him to save her.

"I'm fine," she says, and it comes out sharper than she wants. He frowns.

"Yes, you're welcome," he says.

"I didn't need your help," she says.

"Forgive me for not wishing to see you injured."

She will not forgive him. He should know better by now. She does not want him to touch the orb. She wants him to forget about it completely, but she is not that lucky. He is too focused to forget.

He scoops it up with one hand. She expects him to glow or the orb to glow or something, anything to happen, but nothing does. He stares at the orb and it is a dead thing in his hand.

"Curious," he says, and he looks bewildered.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"The lock is more complex than I anticipated," he says, "It will take time to open it."

She would thank Sylaise if she hadn't been a slave owning despot masquerading as a god. It is one of the few things she thinks Solas was honest about. The Evanuris were corrupt. They were too powerful and it lead to their downfall. It drove them mad.

And Solas is on the same path. 

She feels sick.

"You don't need it at all. Leave well enough alone," she says. She watches him turn the thing over and over again. He looks at it from all sides. He summons more wisps and holds it up to their light. 

"No," he says.

"Why not?" she asks. June and Mythal and Falon'Din are more than enough. Why isn't he satisfied?

"If I don't, someone else will, and I will not risk you."

"I am not at risk," she says. She would rather be the one at risk if it meant he wasn't going to bloat himself on a dead goddess' power.

There is a pulse of magic in her left palm. She doesn't know the reason for it, but it is strange. Forgewright feels hotter than usual---it is not quite painful but close enough. It is uncomfortable. 

"There is something wrong with that staff," Solas says and he's not even looking.

She grips her staff a little more tightly. He has gotten too good at guessing her thoughts.


	44. The Broken Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is impatient, she is afraid.

He sits by the fire and holds the orb. He leaves the horses and the fire to her care. He ignores everything else but his new puzzle. 

He seems unconcerned when he can't unlock it. He smiles to himself and hums as if he's enjoying the challenge. 

It makes her skin crawl. Every sound he makes has her tensing up. Every second that passes makes her feel worse. He is going to figure it out soon enough and she wants to stop him.

She doesn't know how.

"You can't even see what this is doing to you," she says. "Leave it locked. Don't take any more power."

Forgewright rests across her lap, burning too hot again. When it touches her skin, it hurts. It leaves red marks. It almost blisters.

She can't begin to guess what's wrong with it.

"And you don't need that staff," he says, "Get rid of it."

"You first," she says. Her temper flares. What is his obsession with Forgewright? Why does he hate it so much? 

His fingers frost over as he traces symbols on the orb's surface. He huffs a little when nothing happens, but he is still oddly pleased.

"A staff should not hurt you when you use it," he says, "It is clearly damaged, the enchantments have become unstable. I am concerned. That is all."

She doesn't care. She's keeping it forever now, just because he keeps insisting. 

"If I told you to keep it, would you throw it away?" he asks. Her answer is a scowl he doesn't see. He doesn't tear his gaze away from the orb. 

She feels the familiar prickling at the back of her head, a rippling sensation in her skull. She thinks she must be over tired, drained, exhausted. She is not getting enough sleep lately.

She hopes Mahariel has fared better because she is out of patience. If they can find just one orb, just one, they'll have a chance. And it will be one less orb for him to find. She almost dares to hope.

If anyone can do it, it's Mahariel. 

But then Solas does tear his gaze away from the orb. When he looks at her, he is frowning and his gaze is dark.

"If the people you care so much for would be reasonable, I would gladly stop," he says, "I do not enjoy any of this. Should they succeed, should they find any of the lost orbs, the power will destroy them. You know I am right."

No, she doesn't know that. What happened to her with his orb was an accident and it happened before the Veil fell. Things are different now. Magic is different. She doesn't believe the power will destroy them.

She doesn't care what Solas thinks.

He shifts his gaze back to the orb, but the frown is fixed to his face. His shoulders are tense, and his earlier calm seems to have vanished. 

Good, she thinks, because she doubts she will ever feel calm again. It is only fitting he shares her discomfort.

If Mahariel does manage to find a way, she worries what will happen after. What will they do once Solas is contained? Will they remember she is their ally? Will they start trusting her or will they decide to punish her for his crimes once they no longer need her? Will they forget her sacrifices?

She hates that she doesn't know. She hates that she is afraid. 

"You have sacrificed too much for people who care nothing for you," Solas says, "You should put them out of your mind. Mahariel is a fool. He isn't worth your time."

She is struck by that nagging, uncomfortable feeling again. He is good at reading her face, but he is not that good. He couldn't have guessed she was thinking about Mahariel. 

Her chest feels too tight. 

He fusses over the orb. He isn't looking at her---he doesn't see that she's staring at him. 

"We were talking about you, " she says at last, "Not Mahariel or my people. How did you know what I was thinking?"

She is afraid to hear the answer.

"It is not a difficult thing to guess your thoughts," he says, "You care too much for people who are ungrateful. Please, vhenan, stop."

More lies. She can hear the careful lilt of his voice and his words---yes, his words do not really answer her question. Somehow, he is delving into her mind. He is reading her thoughts and stealing her secrets as easily as Cole can. 

But Cole uses the knowledge only to help. Solas is not helping anyone but himself.

His hands still but he doesn't dare meet her gaze.

"Have you been reading my mind?" she asks. Why does she ask? She already knows. A better question would be how. She doesn't need to know the why. She knows that too.

"You are not a book, vhenan," he says.

"Don't lie to me."

"I know _you_. I wouldn't have to read your mind to know your thoughts," he says, "You wear them on your sleeve."

She is going to be sick and then she is going to be sick again. And again. And again. Because all of this is too horrible. He has known everything probably for quite a while. He has looked into her thoughts and used them against her. He has manipulated her. He has shown her even less respect than she believed.

"This is low, even for you," she says. She doesn't recognize the sound of her voice. She is going to scream and when she starts she won't be able to stop. 

He is too far gone.

She knows it now.

He sets the orb in his lap and rubs his eyes.

"Very well, yes. You are not wrong," he says, "I did not mean to invade your privacy, but you are always screaming. Your thoughts are loud. It is difficult to drown you out."

She is screaming right now, silently, mentally. It is no wonder he was so good at breaking down her defenses---he knew exactly what to say and do because she practically told him. He plucked everything right out of her mind to use against her.

She is glad he can see the full spectrum of her revulsion because she doesn't know the words strong enough to express any of it.

"You were never going to tell me, were you?" she asks. She knows he wasn't going to. He was distracted and he didn't think she would notice so he let his guard down. He slipped. She can't read his mind, but she can read his face. She sees a flicker of guilt, but more than that, she sees a flicker of anger.

He is not really Solas any more.

"Stop," he says, "I am the same man I have always been. I am flawed and imperfect. I have made terrible mistakes, but I am still me. Do not torture yourself---"

"You're still doing it," she says, "Stay out of my mind!" She shouts at him. 

"I don't do it to hurt you," he says.

"But you are. You did. How could you?" she asks, "After everything, even after everything, I thought---I thought---"

"Vhenan," he says. There is that tone, the one he uses when she's being irrational and he means to humor her. Patronizing. He is so patronizing.

"Don't you dare," she says, "You had no right. None at all." But she is talking about more than just this. She is talking about all of it. The Veil, her people, her thoughts, her---he tore a bloody hole in the world and he did it because he thought it was his right. He was so arrogant he believed there was no worth left in a place that didn't conform to his standards. People weren't people if they didn't fit his ideal, if they didn't suit him.

It was always only ever about what he wanted. He didn't care about her or anyone else, and she let herself believe him. She let him tell her pretty lies. She let him touch her. She let him take the last bit of herself and reshape it until it suited him. She let him break her apart.

"I don't even want to look at you right now," she continues.

She wants to die. She feels like something inside of her has shattered.

She is shaking when she picks up Forgewright. She drags her bedroll to the opposite side of the fire, where Griffin is watching, glaring at Solas. A horse is a better judge of character than she is, even a spirit horse, even an undead creature knows.

"No," Solas says, "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I know that now---"

'Don't talk to me," she says, "Don't look at me. Don't come near me."

Her cheeks are wet and she doesn't know why she is crying. She doesn't want to, doesn't want to give him that, but she can't stop herself. After everything he's done, this should not be the thing that undoes her. 

It is all too much.

She wishes Dorian was here. He would know what to say, maybe even know how to keep him out of her mind. But if he was here, she would have to see his face. He would look at her and there would be nothing she could say to make everything right again. She can't make up for her mistakes. 

"I know I have hurt you," Solas says.

"I said don't talk to me," she snaps.

When she sits, she lays Forgewright across her lap. Solas follows. He gets in front of her and invades her space and he is almost begging her to look at him. She can't. She can't do this again. Anymore. She can't. She wants it to be over. 

"Everything I'm doing is to make this world a better place," he says, "For you. For us. Sometimes, I am selfish. Yes, you are right. Sometimes, I am weak, but I am trying to be a better man."

"You are failing," she says, "You have failed." The world was flawed before but there were people in it. There were struggles but there was joy. Now, there is nothing. 

He has probably sent Morrigan after the Wardens. They are probably dead, rotting in a ditch somewhere, because she didn't know he could pluck information from her head. Sera is probably dead too. This time, she probably really is alone.

He has isolated her. He has taken everything. He has tried to make himself the center of her world. Her only friend. The sun that shines.

Solas makes a desperate sound, but she still won't look at him. 

"When I first woke, I saw what the world had become and I knew nothing but grief and shame for all I had done. I thought if I could remove the Veil, I could reverse the damage. I thought it would redeem me and for a long time, it drove me almost to madness," he says, "You alone saw me for who I was and who I wanted to be. You gave me hope."

"And I was wrong," she says. She loved him. She threw her heart away so foolishly and everyone else paid the price.

Her chest hurts. If Sera is dead---if Sera is dead---

"I know now there is no way to absolve myself, not truly," Solas continues, "I have lost everything. I have lost everyone, but you, at least, are still alive. You are here. You are whole. If I must invade your privacy to keep you safe, that is what I will do. Hate me if you must, but I will endure, forever if that's what it takes. I know you don't believe me, but you are my heart. I love you." But his heart is shriveled and dead.

It is awkward to move with him so close, but she stands. She uses Forgewright to push herself up because she has to get away from him. She doesn't care that it burns and this time the burn _is_ too much. It is nothing compared to what the world went through, Dorian and Cassandra, Vivienne and Blackwall, Iron Bull and Varric. Cole. Her pain is nothing. She is nothing.

Solas grabs her wrist. He holds her, stops her retreat.

'No. You are everything," he says, "You are the only thing." More lies. Always lies. 

"In time you will understand," he says, and he is anguished. There is a tremor in his voice that before would have made her crumble.

She tries to pry her wrist out of his hold but he is too strong, too insistent. He is probably hurting her.

She will never understand. There is no justification she can accept. 

"Let go of me. Now." She will burn him if he doesn't. She has immolate ready, the magic coiling at her fingertips, aching to be released.

When Solas lets go, she steps back, almost stumbles. She grips Forgewright with both hands to steady herself and she feels that strange pulse of magic again. it is in her left palm, where the scar of the anchor is. It thrums against the dragonbone. It twists. It pulls.

Her breath catches. 

"Please, listen to me," Solas says.

Something in Forgewright breaks. She doesn't know what or why---maybe the force of her anger, maybe the residual energy of the anchor, but whatever it is, it snaps and magic is suddenly pouring out of it and into her hand. It feels like she's fighting to close a rift, but there is no pain. It doesn't crackle across her skin like lightning. It doesn't tear at her skin. She pulls the magic out of her staff until there is nothing left and it is a charred, useless piece of dragonbone. 

Solas doesn't see it. He's too busy talking at her. He can't see her. Not really.

She lets Forgewright fall to the ground. it is useless now.

"What's wrong?" Solas asks. As if he doesn't know. As if he hasn't already sensed it.

Forgewright is broken beyond repair. It is dead. No doubt he is pleased.

"I'm fine," she says. I hate you, she thinks.

"You are not fine," he counters, and he is snapping at her, yelling.

She still feels the pull of magic in her palm. Forgewright is drained but the feeling doesn't stop, it shifts. It draws her away, back toward Solas' bedroll and the camp fire, back toward the orb. She sees a flicker of something at it's core, barely a spark, but it is calling to her. How does Solas not see it? She expects him to say something, to acknowledge it, but he doesn't.

It moves. 

The orb moves.

She feels the touch of Solas' hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. She feels the fingers of his other hand curling around her arm. It is soft. It is meant to be comforting. It is meant to soothe.

It is unwanted.

He is too close and she is too angry.

'You look like you're going to faint," he says, 'Sit down. Let me look at you."

He has not noticed the orb yet. He hasn't picked through her thoughts yet. There is no way she can get to it. When she moves, he'll see. He'll stop her. He'll know. 

"I said I'm fine. Don't touch me," she says. She wants to hit him, hurt him. 

She feels so strange, like she's floating, like she's drunk on good wine. And she doesn't understand.When she absorbed the sliver of June's power, it didn't make her feel like this. It hurt terribly but it didn't leave her like this. What did she absorb from Forgewright? And why? 

The orb twitches again. She has a moment to wonder how, but then it doesn't matter. She has to touch it, she realizes. She needs to pick it up. She needs to hold it in her hand---

"No, look at me, something's wrong," Solas says, and he puts himself between her and the orb. He grips her arms and puts his face too close. He forces her to look at him, to see him, and she is struck with an inexplicable feeling of terror.

He is going to see it. He is going to stop her.

"Get away from me," she says, and her voice sounds strangled, "I don't want you touching me. I don't want you in my head."

He doesn't let go.

"I won't invade your mind unless I have to," he says, "I promise." His promises mean nothing. 

"Breathe," he says, "Talk to me." He looks at her like the world is ending. He is afraid, she realizes. She would have cared, once. She would have tried to listen to him. She would have trusted him.

The call of the orb is too strong. The scar of the anchor pulses. It aches. Whatever she took from Forgewright, whatever power she absorbed, it is connected. Somehow, the archdemon's staff was made with Sylaise's magic. Somehow, that is the reason the orb is calling to her.

"The staff," she says, and his face twists.

"What about it?" he asks, his voice is sharp, "It hurt you? What do you feel?"

She doesn't answer. She wants him to let go. She wants him to stop for just a moment, just long enough for her to move, but he has been reading her thoughts all this time. He is probably reading them now. He knows, she thinks. No matter what he says, she doesn't believe him. She can't. 

His fingers dig in to her arms, bruising. His nails cut her skin. This should hurt, she thinks, but she feels nothing but the call of Sylaise's magic. She feels the orb. It is the same feeling she used to get from closing a rift---the long moment she was connected and struggling to close it, the heat of the anchor as it forced the magic into her. 

She can't stop herself from reaching for it. She feels like she has to open a rift or close one, but that's not possible. The anchor is not what it was. She can't. 

"I told you there was something wrong with it," he says, "I should have just taken it. I should have destroyed it." He kisses her forehead. He presses his lips to her skin and just holds her there. She can't pull away.

"This is my fault," he says, "Sit down, please. This could be serious. Let me look at you. I can heal the damage."

She feels that prickling in her head again. She has felt it so often when she was with him. All those times she was furious and then he'd manage say just the right thing to disarm her---she knows now what it means. He _was_ reading her mind. He is.

Whatever she's going to do, she has to do it now.

She has to.

She tries to open a rift. She can't think of what else to do. But she knows she can't really open anything with the anchor. She knows she's not strong enough anymore. She can only pull. 

She has already failed. 

She knows.

But the orb moves. Blue light stretches out of it and touches her palm and then it's flying toward her. 

Solas turns, his hands still gripping her, as she catches it. He shouts but he's too late. 

The magic of the orb pours into her. 

All of it.


	45. Hold the Sky Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She feels stronger.

"No," he says, and magic spills from his fingers. 

Cold creeps up her arms. The frost melts almost as soon as it forms, but the chill remains. Solas rests his forehead against hers and his grip is so tight she can feel the bruises. They will be ugly later. She will hurt.

When his eyes glow, everything dulls. She feels like she's tearing, like she's being pulled out of herself. And then, he stops. His face is too pale and his eyes are too wide. He tried to force the magic from her body. He tried to take it. 

She is shaking. She is furious. 

"Ir abelas," he says, "I can't."

He says, "I can't."

"Let go," she says.

She heats the air around them. She tries to make him let go. She knows now what will happen if he tries to take Sylaise's power. It will kill her. She will die.

But he endures the heat. He blisters, and then, he pours cold into the air. His breath ghosts against her cheek, a white cloud. He is shaking when he lowers his face to her shoulder.

"What were you thinking?" Solas asks.

"Why even ask when you can just look into my mind and find out for yourself?" she asks. Why bother to say anything out loud at all? If he can read her mind, it stands to reason she can read his. They could speak directly that way. She wouldn't have to stumble over her outrage, she could bury him under the sensation.

She could flood him with her revulsion.

She will.

Oh, she will. 

"I wanted to give you the chance to tell me yourself," he says. Lies, she thinks. He is trying to contain the damage, manage her. He thinks if he pretends to abide by her wishes she will melt for him. 

But she will not. She hates the chill of his hands. She hates the constant rush of magic spilling out of him. She hates the how close he is standing.

She hates even the sight of him. 

"I'm not one of your soldiers. I don't owe you an explanation," she says.

Mahariel's instincts were right and she hates that too. Fenris was right. Velanna was right. She couldn't be trusted and she couldn't help it. Solas was always one step ahead of her. 

"I won't let you destroy yourself," he says, "I will find away. I promise."

She doesn't want to be saved. She doesn't need to be saved.

"I will burn you if you don't let me go," she says. All of you, she thinks, down to the last thread in his cloak, down to the tiniest freckle on his body. It is a far better fate than he deserves.

_He was picking through her thoughts, all this time._

But he is still too strong. They both know it. She can't really hurt him. Only with words. Only if he lets her. Somehow, she feels worse. 

She is still weak. All this power. All this and it is still nothing. 

 

He doesn't take her back to his damned floating island or his city or his fortress. He doesn't trust her not to harm his precious People. Even though he knows better. She has only ever hurt them in self defense, only to protect herself or someone else.

She is not petty.

She is not cruel.

Well. Not to anyone but him. 

He takes her to Skyhold. He leads her through the eluvian and sends his People away and she is as furious as she has ever been. She doesn't want to be here. She hasn't seen it since before the fall, when she said goodbye to Josephine. When Master Dennet helped her saddle Griffin. When she had one last drink with Bull and the Chargers. When she spent one last sleepless night praying to gods she knew weren't real, praying for him, begging for a miracle that never came.

She hopes he marked the graves carefully. Josephine deserves better than a shared pit. They all do. He let them die.

Skyhold is different. 

"Do you like it?" he asks, but he is tense, stiff. He is furious.

"No," she says. 

Her banners and tapestries have been replaced with his. They are Elvhen and beautiful and horrifying. Blackwall's tables and chairs are gone. Josephine's desk is gone. The hideous throne Vivienne insisted she keep is gone. Everything. Only the rotunda has been unchanged.

They kept his paintings, because of course they would. One does not paint over a god's work. One does not dare. But she dares. She will. She will scorch the paint off the walls. 

He decides she's going to share a room with him. He thinks he can stop her from leaving if he keeps her in sight, if he dogs her steps, if he crowds her. He thinks he can do that and research a way to pull the powers of a god out of her without killing her. He is powerful and he is arrogant but he still has to sleep. 

And he will. He will sleep and she will leave.

Her things are gone and her room is _his_ now. Her bed has been replaced with Josephine's. The blankets are thick and soft and warm, and there are too many plush pillows. It will be difficult to stay awake in a bed like this. It will be impossible to sleep in a bed like this.

Stolen from the dead, from her friend, from a woman he killed with his foolishness. 

"There is something wrong with you," she says. She will sleep on the floor before she sleeps beside him in that thing.

He is running out of patience. She can feel it in the air when he rounds on her.

"Enough," he says.

"I will not stay here with you," she says.

"You are a danger to yourself," he says, "You are a danger to anyone you meet if you remain like this. You will stay and I will find a way to fix you."

"You're disgusting," she says.

"You didn't find me quite so disgusting mere days ago and I am no different now than I was then," he says, "Don't lie to yourself."

And then he adds, more to himself than to her, "This isn't you. This is the orb. It has already begun to change you."

"This is me. This is finally me," she says.

The air seems to sizzle between them. The tension is thick and her anger is raw. She doesn't care that she is treading the line, that she is pushing him. She wants him to snap. She wants to hurt him. She needs to.

"This is not you," he says, his voice low. She hears the warning. 

"You're going to have to kill me," she says. This is her. She has not consumed so much power she has lost herself. She hasn't even had a chance to test her limits. She is still ignorant to what she can do. How hot can she burn before she burns out?

His breath sucks in sharp.

"Please, vhenan, stop." 

But the tremor in his voice does nothing. She feels nothing. 

"You may call me Inquisitor," she says, "Or Inquisitor Lavellan or ma'am. But I am not your vhenan, Fen'Harel, not ever again."

He stares at her for too long and she almost believes he's going to hit her. His hands clench into fists and the muscle in his neck is too tight. Then, he turns. He pulls pillows off the bed and one of the thick blankets. He throws them on the floor by the stairs. 

"As you wish, Inquisitor," he says, "I will gladly sleep on the floor. I wouldn't dream of forcing you to sleep beside me." Maybe he is right and the power is changing her. Maybe because his hurt is delicious and she does not usually enjoy inflicting pain. His is the most beautiful sound. 

"I will never sleep in that bed," she says. The look on his face is terrible, but she is not afraid.

If she was like Morrigan, she could change her form and just fly away. The balcony doors are open and it is too high up for him to be concerned. They are unguarded, he has not bothered to place wards. He follows her gaze and the hard line of his mouth dips lower. She doesn't feel the pricking in her mind but he knows what she's thinking nonetheless.

"I will fix this," he says, "I will find a way."

"You'll only make it worse," she says, "That's all you ever do." 

 

She sleeps on the floor. He sleeps in Josephine's office. She burns the bed. He wards the balcony.

She dreams of a golden city and shimmering towers. She dreams of fire and blood, of soaring high above it all. She dreams of the People. She hears their screams, tastes them. Their deaths are copper and bile and ash on her tongue.

She wakes to pain She is being pulled out of herself again. She sees his glowing eyes as the room fades, but it only lasts a moment. When it stops, she looks up and he is staring down at her. His mouth is grim and his eyes are clear. 

He doesn't look the least bit apologetic. He only looks a little concerned. This is the face he wore when he destroyed the world. 

She needs to leave before he figures out how to remove her power.

She tries to hit him but he catches her hand, his thumb curves against her palm.

"And now I have to worry about being assaulted in my sleep," she says, "Get out." She can still taste the blood in her mouth. She can still smell the smoke. The dream is still heavy in her mind.

"The longer we wait, the harder it will be to free you," he says, as if that excuses everything. 

She wonders what else she can do besides heat the air around her indefinitely. She wonders if she can crack open the earth as he did. Can she wipe an entire city off the map? 

"You can free me right now," she says, "But you won't admit that you are my only prison. This power is mine and I'm not giving it to you."

"You don't have a choice."

She wrenches her hand away and tosses her blankets aside. She gets to her feet and leaves him staring at her back. 

"There is always a choice," she says and she is too tense. 

She is not talking about this. She is talking about _him_ , about what he did. All of it. He could have found a way to lower the veil without killing everyone. He could have found a way to do it gradually, to ease the path. He could have and he didn't, because he didn't care. She feels a spike of pain behind her eye. 

He could have stayed out of her thoughts. He could have told her the truth. He could have let her go the first time she told him to. He could have listened. He could have and he didn't, because he didn't care. Still doesn't. 

She was not always this stupid. There was a time she knew better. She was better.

She is better now. Maybe that will be enough.

"You should have breakfast," he says. She hears him stand. She hears the shuffle of his feet on the stone, the rustle of blankets as he moves them out of the way.

"I'm not hungry." She is angry and her head is aching. It is too bright and too early and she did not sleep well. It was not a good dream. 

"I'll make you something," he says. Every time he speaks, her body tenses. Why won't he just stop?

"I'll make myself something when I'm hungry," she says, hands clenching. She doubts that will be any time soon. Whatever appetite she might have had died when he woke her with his magic. She wouldn't trust him not to drug her with something.

"Do you have to make everything a battle?" he asks.

"Do you?" she asks, "You're trying to be a god. My people neither need nor want another one of those."

"You're wrong again," he says, "Stop making baseless assumptions. You have no understanding of what I've had to do, what I've done, what I want."

"I know what you will do and that's more than enough. The more I learn the more disgusted I am."

The pain makes her eyes water. She needs him to go away. She needs him to shut up so she can think without having to hear his excuses. 

"You are in no position to judge me," he says. His hand is on her arm again and her head is screaming at her. He is screaming at her.

The windows shatter. 

The force of the blast sends the shards of glass over the railing and down into the courtyard. It drives her back into him and he holds onto her arms, his fingers finding the bruises he left. She tries to shrug him off, but like always, he fights her. Stop touching me, she thinks, and she pictures him burning. She thrusts the image at him with a force and rage that leaves her light headed. Dizzy.

Her headache eases and there is a long silence. The windows are her fault. She knows. She hadn't meant to lash out like that, but she did and it is worrying. She has not lost control of her magic since she was small.

Solas lets go of her arm though, and that is a relief.

"Now who is losing control?" he asks.

"I haven't had a chance to learn," she says, "But I will. Make no mistake about that."

"You won't master it before it masters you," he says, "You will harm someone you care about. You will harm yourself. Your body isn't strong enough to contain this kind of power."

"You were wrong about the Veil killing me," she says, "You're wrong about this."

"I am not."

But he is. He is wrong or he is lying. She can read his uncertainty. She doesn't know why she couldn't before, but it is there on his face when she dares to look. It is so clear she is almost embarrassed for him, for her too, for not recognizing it before now. For not wanting to see it.

"Please, don't fight me," Solas says, "Help me save you." His fear, his desperation, it is overwhelming.

Her laughter is sharp. It is mirthless. It is cold. She is not as weak as she thought she was, not if he is this worried. She is going to figure this and she's going to do it herself.

"Save yourself," she says, "I don't want anything from you."


	46. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He won't give up.

He tries again when she's reading. And then again after dinner. He gets a little closer each time. She has long since lost her patience.

There are threads of magic woven into the walls. They are a pale green and pure. They are his. 

When she looks at Solas she sees the same threads inside him, but green is not the only color. There are dark blues and brilliant, shimmering silvers. They are so tightly connected, they burrow so deep within him, she couldn't pull one without pulling them all. If she could pull them out at all. She doubts it. There are too many.

But there is a third color, a gray so dark it is almost black. It doesn't delve deep into him like the other shades. She can't sense much about it but what she does sense tells her it doesn't sit well within him. It is more like a shadow. It is forever shifting in the light of the other threads. 

She wonders what would happen if she tugged on it, pulled it loose. Where would it go? What would he do?

His scowl deepens when he catches her staring. His attempts to steal her power have left her aching and sore. Exhausted. She has not learned how to turn off the sight at will. It flickers at random. It flares brighter each time he touches her with that damned spell. It goes out on it's own, but she would like to be able to control it. 

"This would go much faster if you'd stop fighting me," Solas says, "At least sit for a moment."

He has had to follow her through the keep. After his ambush in the library, she is reluctant to sit still. She will make him follow until he's too tired to trouble her. She will make him chase her. 

When she blinks, the threads of magic finally fade. She is left staring at just his face and she is glad she has already eaten because this turns her stomach. She would not be able to eat now. 

"If you want to try again, you'll have to wait until I'm asleep," she says, "Does it make you feel good to use your magic like that? To force it on me while I'm unconscious? Your People must be very proud. What a fine example of Elvhenan you are."

His breath hitches. He looks as disgusted as she feels.

"Do you really think so low of me?"

"You've given me no reason to think otherwise," she says, "You are more like the Evanuris than you realize."

When he doesn't speak, she presses on.

"Did Elgar'nan take whatever he wanted too?" she asks, "Regardless of whether or not he had the right."

He shuts his eyes and she thinks he's counting to ten. She doesn't wait to find out. She leaves him standing alone in the main hall. She stops in the rotunda and she hears his footsteps as he jogs to catch up.

She scorches the painting of the wolves and the all seeing eye, the symbol of the Inquisition. The rest will burn later, because right now, he is too busy hurting her to paint anything new. She can't destroy everything at once. She has to pace herself.

Such a pity.

The only sound he makes when he sees the damage is another heavy sigh. 

"Tell me what I'm supposed to do," he says, "What would you do, vh---Inquisitor? Would you stand by and watch the one you love destroy themselves when you had the power to stop them? Would you let them kill the innocent? Would you let them ruin the last of what very little remains?"

"I wouldn't know because I never had the power to stop the man I loved from destroying himself. He did it quite eagerly in secret. He killed the innocent too. Still is. At least this way, the scales are a little more balanced."

She might burn his old desk next. There is nothing he needs left on it, but it's the sentiment that matters. 

"That is not an answer," he says, "Instead of sniveling like a child, tell me. Give me another option. I will be glad to take it." Lies. He will not. He'll pick it apart and pretend it has no merit. 

"I've given you options. Return to your people and stop hunting dead gods. Content yourself with the power you already have and leave me alone. You could have peace---"

"Lies. You insult me, Inquisitor," he says.

"Frequently and gladly," she says, "It is the last joy I have in this life." It feels that way. And what does that say of her? That she gets such pleasure in lashing out at him. She should probably be ashamed. She should probably care.

"Peace is impossible. I know what Mahariel is doing, or have you forgotten?" he asks. He snaps, "He is chasing war. Not I. If you seek to place blame, look no further than your own camp." Even now he persists. 

"You destroyed the world. We're allowed to be concerned."

"Concerned, yes, " he agrees, "I understand, but I can not allow you to risk the last of our people. There are too few left. On both sides. None of you are prepared to take on this kind of power. You don't know what it will do to you---you can't possibly---you would wipe out the last of us with this foolishness."

She is not risking anyone. She is trying to stop him. She is trying to contain his madness. She is trying to give her people enough power to protect themselves from his precious, precious Elvhen empire. She has seen too often what happens to powerless people. She knows what will happen to hers when the Elvhen kingdom starts to flourish and prosper. They are a people who thrived off slavery. They will again. She is not so foolish she can't see it.

It scares her. It scares her more that he can't see it. 

"Look at yourself for a moment," she says, "Really look."

"I have," he says, but it is just another lie. He has not. He could not, because if he had looked, he would know he is wrong.

And she has had enough of him and this to last ten thousand life times. He hears nothing but himself. He sees no options other than the ones he creates. She should stop trying to reason with him. It is futile. It only leaves her in a bitter mood.

"The last time I left the world to take care of itself, it fell apart," he says. A poor excuse, she thinks, because it was still his fault. The world fell because he didn't stay to help the People transition into the new world. He didn't think it through. He never thinks things through. 

"And yet the world was still there," she says, "Don't pretend this is better." So many dead cities. So many houses abandoned, their owners entombed within. Air that stinks of carrion and stale smoke. 

He is quiet when he answers, but he does answer. 

"Perhaps it isn't," he says, "Perhaps, you're right. But it is all we have now. We must find a way to live in this world and work together." It is the best she's going to get from him.

"Living together doesn't mean you're allowed to step in when ever you think we're going to hurt ourselves on something sharp." It is not like him at all. He would never, before. He would have been horrified at just the suggestion he could be this way.

"That's not what I'm trying to do---"

"Well, it's what you're doing. So stop," she says.

"Consuming the power of an Evanuris is not the same as touching something sharp," he says, "It is far worse."

"It's exactly the same," she says, because it is. 

But he disagrees. She knows he will but a part of her hopes somehow. She thinks maybe. She thinks if she can just get him to hear her, he'll stop. He'll finally understand.

It is the same mistake she always makes. She gives him another chance and she is disappointed. It is the one thing she can count on. He will always let her down.

"This is pointless," he says.

"Is it? You can't tell me the power will corrupt me and pretend you are protected. You have taken the power of three of the Evanuris. Three, Solas," she says, "You lose more of yourself each time. The Solas I knew would have been horrified by what you've done. No, I'm not talking about the Veil. I'm talking about this, about you, Kirkwall. The Solas I loved would have never gone into my mind without asking first. He respected me. Even when he lied to me, he respected me more than you."

He had valued her opinion once. He had questioned his own. He listened.

There was that much. 

"You're wrong," he snaps, "I'm fine."

"I'm not wrong. You just can't see it," she says, "You don't want to." She knows all about that---about not seeing what's there, about pretending. 

But she was wrong to hope. She was wrong to look for the man she fell in love with. He is gone. He is dead. 

She burns the rest of his murals while he watches. 

 

Cole finds her in the Fade and she is surprised to see him. She wanted to. She has wanted to see him since Hunter Fell, but he wouldn't answer her. Just the sight of him, as wrong as he is, makes her happy.

"You're different," he says, but she can't tell what he means, if he's pleased or not. His voice is steady, emotionless.

"I am?" she asks.

"You are bright like Solas now," he says when she reaches for him.

No, she thinks. No. And she stops, pulls back.

Cole looks different. She can see the broken parts, the edges, the holes where kindness used to live. She can see his pain. There is so much of it, it is no wonder he flickers between rage and despair.

Apathy is gone. She hadn't imagined it. There are weaker threads of light, pink like scar tissue, places and parts that look like they've been sewed back together. He has started to heal. 

But still, it is not enough.

"I am nothing like Solas," she says. She hears the venom in her voice and it makes her cringe. He does not deserve venom. He deserves only softness. He deserves careful. He deserves kindness.

She does not remember how to be kind.

"You are blue instead of green," he says, and then he frowns, "But sometimes Solas is blue, and he is dark. There are too many whispers." It is the most she has heard him say. She wants to be hopeful, but the way he looks at her, there is a distance. She can't tell if he's afraid but she thinks he might be. Cole. _Afraid._ Of her.

She feels sick.

"How are you?" she asks. 

She doesn't want to talk about Solas. She wants to talk about Cole. She wants him to remember who he was. She wants him to remember the boy who stole milk to feed kittens, the boy who hid daggers so no one would get hurt, the boy who ended a dying man's suffering when no one else would. When it looked hopeless, Cole was always there. He never gave up.

He is not this.

"We are nothing," he says. The sick feeling inside her is worse now. 

"You are not nothing. Stop saying that," she says.

She is not angry at him, but she can't soften her voice. He is not nothing. He is not a twisted thing who can't remember himself. He is compassion---he must still be compassion. Even if he isn't, even if there is no way to bring him back, she can't start down that path. She can't let herself consider that this might be forever. 

"We can't help," he says, and she hears Despair. The first flicker of real emotion and it belongs to a fractured piece of him, a piece that would have been a demon in the world before the Veil fell. 

"Would you like to help?" she asks. 

He will say yes, because he is Cole, she tells herself. He will look at her and try to smile and try to make everything alright again. He can't help it. Compassion is who he is, deep down, he must know it. His heart remembers even if he does not.

But he says, "No." He seems to shrink in on himself, cringing from her. He is afraid, she realizes, and she sees Rage. Her only other friend besides Sera and he looks at her as if she's going to hurt him.

She steps back.

"You don't have to help," she says. She won't force him. She won't force change when he doesn't want it, not like Solas. She is not like him at all. No matter what Cole says. She's different.

She's still herself.

"We can't," he insists.

"I understand, Cole, it's alright," she says. She tries to smile, but she knows she fails. His eyes are so black. He is taller than she is but why does he look so small?

"Can you tell me anything of Mahariel and Sera?" she asks. She hopes. She hopes the change in topics will calm him, at the very least. 

But he shakes his head. He continues to pull away. 

"We left them in the Deep Roads," he says, and she is confused. The Deep Roads again? Why? There can't be another orb there. It makes no sense.

"Why were they in the Deep Roads?" she asks, " Please, Cole. Try to think."

"You can't help," he says, "You can only hurt."

"Cole," she says, "No." It comes out a sob, but he's already gone.

He's gone. 

 

She wakes to the touch of a hand on her face. Featherlight on her cheek, it lingers.

"Ma sa'lath, please," he says.

She doesn't want to open her eyes but she does. He is above her again, but his eyes are not glowing. He is not smiling.

_Cole is afraid of her and he thinks she is a monster, just like Solas._ Her stomach lurches when she remembers. It takes everything she has not to vomit.

Solas is still staring at her, still touching her, a curious expression on his face. She bats his hand away.

"I should thank you, I suppose," she says, "For waking me first."

He sits back on his heels, shoulders hunching, his face the very picture of misery. She is not fooled. She leans on her elbows but doesn't sit up. There is no point if he's going to hit her with that spell again. She will be flat on her back, writhing in pain.

"I don't enjoy hurting you," he says.

"If that were true, you'd stop."

She expects him to bristle. She expects him to lash out, but he doesn't. He rubs his eyes and looks miserable. The air feels cooler around him but not enough to be uncomfortable.

"Ir abelas, I won't try again until I know for certain," he says.

"You should not try at all," she says, "Ever."

"Must we fight?" he asks, he shuts his eyes again, for just a moment, "Aren't you weary of it? Do you not wish for more than this?"

"There are too many things I wish for," she says, " _This_ , whatever it is or was, is at the very bottom of the list."

When he stands, he extends his hand to help her up. She considers it, thinks it would be better to ignore him, but relents. She lets him pull her to her feet. She is angry, but she is tired, too. Much too tired for this, for him, for any of it. 

"Will you join me for breakfast?" he asks.

No, she thinks. No, this is how it starts. This is how he lures her back in. He is thoughtful and sweet and she forgets how to fight him. She forgets about the lies and the ways he traps her. There is only him and the way she wishes it could have been.

"Please?" he asks.

"No," she says, "Not today." Why is it such a hard thing to say? It should be easy by now. Everything he's done to her and she still feels the twist in her gut.

He smiles anyway. He leaves, and when she is alone, she can breathe again.

She misses his eyes. She remembers how blue they were once. How warm they were, how soft. They were beautiful when he was kind.


	47. Just To Watch Him Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She did not expect to see Morrigan.

The eluvian is inactive. She doesn't know the key. He has changed it.

She gets past him finally when he's asleep. She opens the door, ready to run, but then she looks up. She looks at the gate and the wall and she sees what he has done. She sees what guards the path.

The long, reptilian body uncoils, scales shining in the moonlight. It turns its head. It looks at her. She holds her breath for too long before she realizes what she's looking at, or rather, who. 

"Morrigan?" she asks. It is a small comfort to know she isn't stalking the Grey Wardens. If they're still alive. If she hasn't already killed them.

Morrigan puffs a breath at her---the force makes her stumble. She loses her balance, thinks she's going to fall, but then she doesn't. Two arms wrap around her middle. Solas holds her steady, keeps her upright, her back pressed against his bare chest.

"You are not nearly as quiet as you think you are," he whispers, his lips brushing her ear.

She elbows him to get him to let go and then she turns. She looks him in the eye.

"Really, Solas, a dragon?" she asks. Morrigan, here. Morrigan, doing his bidding. No.

"Yes, really," he says, "It seems a far better choice than locks or wards. You have an uncanny ability to get through them."

"How did you convince Morrigan to help you?" she asks, "I thought you hated each other."

He has the good grace to look abashed. The Vir'abelasan, she thinks, Mythal's power. He is using it, bending her to obey him. She is struck once again by how strange he is right now, how off. 

"Do you know what she was doing before this?" he asks," She was scooping up anyone traveling under my banner and dropping them to their deaths---or burning them alive. She is more dangerous when left alone."

Morrigan snorts and lowers her head, unimpressed with his explanation. She shuts her eyes when Solas shuts the doors.

He adds, "She's free to go once she agrees to stop slaughtering my soldiers. She knows this."

She has nothing to say. She will have to find a way around her too then. Morrigan and Solas. She'll likely have to do it without Griffin. He is bright and easily spotted. There would be no escaping a dragon. 

But that is unthinkable. She can't leave him.

"Don't torture yourself, ma sa'lath," he says, "I have had more time to plan. I have thought of everything, this time."

She doubts that. He is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. There is a flaw in his design. She will find it. And then she will laugh. 

"You're ridiculous," she says, and she pushes past him. 

"My control is not perfect. Don't try to escape again," he says, "I might not be able to stop her in time. She might eat you."

"And that would solve your problems quite neatly," she says.

"It would break me," he says. No. It wouldn't. 

"Go back to bed, Solas," she says. As old as he is, she would think he could do better than that. Or perhaps he meant the loss of Sylaise's power. That is really what he cares about. That would break him. But not her death. She is just a doll. She is replaceable. 

"You know that's not true," he says.

"I told you to stop doing that," she says. She side steps when he comes to close. It is a terrible thing to know her thoughts aren't private. It was different when it was just Cole, but this? She will always be tense, second guessing herself. She will always wonder what he knows. 

"And I told you I'm trying," he says.

"Try harder." Because he is not trying at all. 

He tries to touch her but she knocks his hand to the side. She shoots him a glare that would have withered anyone else. 

"It doesn't need to be like this," he says.

She shuts the door in his face, because what else can she say? It does have to be this way. 

 

Morrigan is still here in the morning. She flicks her tail and narrows her eyes and watches her when she gets too close to the gate. She breathes a warning, the air hot and foul.

Solas is gone and his stupid horse is gone and the eluvian is still inactive. He has left Morrigan to watch her.

She finds a note in Josephine's office. His hand writing, of course. His flowing, careful script. 

_There is an urgent matter that requires my attention. I will be back by morning. Try not to burn down the castle._

He is not funny. This is not funny. She is insulted. Again. She can't even pretend she's surprised. She isn't. This is just more of the same.

She is going to kill him with her bare hands when he returns, and when she's done, she'll find a way to resurrect him so she can kill him again. And then she'll start over. She doesn't care if Morrigan eats her.

It will be worth it.

There is no wine in the cellar. He has made sure of it. So not only does he expect her to sit alone in Skyhold, staring at a dragon, he expects her to do it sober. 

What could possibly be so urgent he would leave her guarded by someone who hates him? What is so close he can ride out and expect to be back by morning? Something farther away than Haven. Something worse than a petty skirmish. Something that is going to make her angry.

She sits in the doorway and stares at Morrigan. She uses the Sight, though it is not an easy thing to control. Her anger has improved her focus. First, she sees the green in the stones of the Keep, then the deep violet that is Morrigan, and finally the lighter, brighter violet that binds her. 

But the bindings are strange. 

They are bright and pale but they darken at the edges. The violet bleeds into a deep blue, and that color is a match for the blue threads in Solas.

He is not Mythal. His connection to the Vir'abelasan is not strong. It is not pure.

And Morrigan has put a strain on them, somehow. She has weakened his hold. Even now. Even as docile as she seems, she resists. If Solas was Mythal, she couldn't hope to sever the connection. She couldn't. 

But Solas is not Mythal.

And Morrigan is her mother's daughter. She is not weak. She is not easily cowed.

Perhaps Lavellan doesn't need the eluvian after all. Perhaps she has something better. 

"I would like to help you, if that's alright?" she asks.

Morrigan doesn't answer, and because she's a dragon, Lavellan doesn't know how to begin to read her. When she stands, the dragon tilts her head and stares at her. She waits. She listens.

"We are going to break those bindings," Lavellan says. Together, she thinks. If she can figure out how to sever the magic, how to disrupt it. She doesn't know if she can, but she hopes.

When Morrigan doesn't chase her back into the Keep, she takes it as a positive sign. She is so tired of being here.

 

But breaking ancient elvhen god bindings not a thing easily done. 

There is some kind of safeguard built into the spell. The small pieces she's able to sever regenerate almost as soon as they're destroyed. It repairs itself. She makes no progress. 

When Solas returns, she is slumped in the door way, half asleep, no closer to freeing Morrigan than she first was. The sky is tinged orange and the sun is just beginning to rise. He smiles and she knows how it looks. 

He thinks she was waiting up for him. 

When he reads her thoughts, he'll know the truth. Perhaps he already does but doesn't think she can do anything. Perhaps he has decided there is no harm in letting her play at this. Even with this new magic, he doubts her. 

He pulls her to her feet. She is too tired to push him away when he kisses her cheek.

His armor is not spattered with blood and he does not reek of death or smoke, but still, he is in far too good a mood. 

"You must be tired," he says, "Leave this alone. Get some sleep."

"Who did you kill this time?" she asks.

Instead of answering, he kisses her other cheek.

"I am going to bed," he says, "Good night, ma sa'lath, or rather, good morning." And then he sweeps past her, wholly unconcerned with what she has been doing, what she plans to do. Now she knows he doesn't believe can free Morrigan.

She can't blame him. She doesn't believe she can do it either. Not really.

Solas pauses at his door. He catches her still staring at him. 

"I don't suppose you wish to join me," he says and he sounds hopeful. 

"No," she says. 

She sits back down in the doorway and fixes her gaze on Morrigan. She hears the door shut, but she doesn't look to confirm that he has left her alone. She will solve this puzzle. She will solve it and then Morrigan will help her escape.

She can't hold out hope for Cole. He won't help her this time.

She should get some sleep. 

She knows she should, but she is afraid Morrigan will be gone when she wakes. When Solas has time to think, he will decide it's better not to risk her stumbling across the answer. He will remove the chance. He will take her power. He will stop her. 

She can't stomach the thought of going back to his fortress and his people. She can't stomach the thought of being at their mercy.

 

She pulls at the threads of magic. 

She tries everything she can think of to burn them away, but there is only ever a brief moment when it works. Only that half of a second. Morrigan has long since lost her patience. 

Another hour ticks byr. Eventually, Solas will wake. He will put an end to this.

She is desperate. 

Lavellan holds her next spell, lets it build. When she lets it go, she touches Morrigan's cheek and pulls with the anchor. That is all she has left to try. It is all she can think of.

The bindings don't break. She knows they won't, but she wrestles some of it loose. The spell disintegrates the blue edges while she holds the rest, while she pulls and pulls and pulls.

But she is no match for Mythal.

It starts to snap back into place, the edges start to glow, the first sign of regeneration.

Morrigan braces herself and then it feels like she's pushing back. She lashes out and when she does, a curious thing happens. Mythal's magic falls back into place, but the blue---the blue that allows Solas to control her doesn't. The last of it disintegrates. Only the pale violet threads remain.

Morrigan is still bound by the Vir'abelasan, but she is not bound to _him_. 

It worked.

It actually did.

She stumbles back. She slumps against the door frame. She is drained. She is numb. She is dumbstruck. She did something right. 

Morrigan flexes her wings.

"Can you get me out of here? she asks.

There is a crash behind her. She hears footsteps. She hears the door, hears him fling it open, hears him shout. Morrigan pushes off. Without her. 

"No," Lavellan says, and she stares, unblinking, "Wait, just a moment---" 

The force of Morrigan's wing beats knocks her to the ground. Morrigan is leaving her---has left her. She is too far away, too high up. She is a dragon and she is running away. She is terrified. 

Solas' hands hook under her arms. Furious, he hauls her to her feet.  


"How?" he asks. He is in her face, screaming, "You couldn't possibly have known. Who helped you?" 

When she turns, when he turns her to face him, he flickers. The grey has spread. It covers him. She can't see the other threads of magic. They are hidden, shrouded. 

He's not really seeing anything. His pupils are too big, too wide. He looks through her instead of at her. 

"Do you even know what you've done?" he asks.

She can't answer because he grabs her throat. He forces her head back and then his eyes are glowing. But he has not solved the puzzle, and he isn't in control. He is hurting her and he doesn't care.

She can't breathe and he doesn't care. 

She claws at his hand. She grabs his wrist and tries to twist it, but she can't because of the spell. She feels the pull. Her vision darkens. She goes cold and then numb. 

She is going to die, she realizes, he is killing her. And all at once, there is a terrible nothing all around her. She can't feel. She can't breathe. She can't think beyond her fear. 

She is out of her body before he stops. She sees herself, limp in the circle of his arms. He is still holding her, shaking her. He touches her face and there is panic written on his.

It should not be like this, she thinks. She has plans. There are people she wants to see. There's Cole. She still wants to help him. She can't leave yet.

But she is floating and she can see her body. Her eyes are open. They're glassy. They're blank. 

This is not how it's supposed to be. 

Then, there is a pull and she's back in her body. She looks up at him and his eyes are clear and red and wet. She can breathe again and it hurts. She can think again but that hurts even more than breathing.

He hurt her and he didn't care.

He wouldn't stop. 

She was dead.

"You are fine now," he says, "You are fine."

No, she isn't. He isn't. This isn't. She wants to scream, but she can't. 

She pushes him away and she's going to vomit. He killed her. He pulled her out of her body. And Morrigan left her here. She helped free her and she left her with him. With this. 

"I was angry. I pushed too hard," he says, "I didn't realize---I didn't mean for it---ir abelas. Ir abelas. You are alright now."

She stands and her knees feel watery. She has to fight to keep her balance. He is wrong. She is not alright. She is not fine. 

"You will never put your hands on me again," she says. 

Never, she thinks. Never. The scar of the anchor is like a brand. Her skin feels too hot. Her head feels too full. There's too much pressure behind her eyes, and she is too tired, exhausted. Her control is fraying.

He will not touch her again, because if he does, she will kill him.

"No, you are right," he says, "I should not have done that. I don't know why I did. It was wrong. I was---I should not have---not in anger. I am sorry."

He makes it worse. Every word, every single word makes her burn hotter. She has had enough to last ten thousand life times. Enough of him. Enough of her people. Enough of his. She is tired and furious and sick to death of the sound of his voice. 

He puts a hand on her arm.

"What did I just say?" she asks. He steps back, but it's too late. He has done it. 

'It is no excuse, I know," he says, "I did not think you could sever my connection to the Vir'abelasan. I was surprised. It was painful. I lashed out---a mistake. A terrible mistake." His voice breaks.

When she shoves him, the heat in her palm lessens. The pressure in her head lessens. There is a ripple of energy there, just under his skin, under hers. She is in agony and then she isn't.

She touches him again. 

She rests her palm flat on his chest and he holds his breath. His face twists. She reads his misery as he cups her cheek, tangles his fingers in her hair. He is probably going to kiss her, she thinks.

She pulls with the anchor.

He screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for cutting it off like that. This is one of those chapters that decided to give me hell.


	48. Guide My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, she knows.

Something tears free. It moves through the anchor, rushing into her with a force that leaves her dizzy. This is not like the power from the orb. This is different.

It moves. It flies into her as if it wants to go, as if it can't bear another moment under Solas' control. 

But it doesn't settle quietly inside her. Almost thinking but not quite. More feeling, more reacting. It is like a thing born of instinct, of emotion. 

It is wild and powerful and surging with a terrible rage.

She tries to pull the rest of his powers from him, but nothing else comes. Just the wild, dark thing. She is not strong enough to take the rest. She stops pulling. She lets go, lowers her arm.

Solas drops to his hands and knees. His head hangs low, his breath comes in gasps. He shakes, weakened.

"You can't," he says, "You don't understand."

At once, she knows what it is. This is not some mindless dreg of power, stolen from an Evanuris. This is a piece of a soul. It is a piece of one of them. It is not Mythal, and she knows it can't be June, because the power Solas stole from him was taken from an orb. If he was telling the truth, there is only one Evanuris left it could belong to. 

Falon'Din. This is a piece of Falon'Din. 

It can't be.

It just can't. 

She wants to scream---she opens her mouth, but no sound comes. He was one of the worst of them. Solas told her of the sacrifices he made, the people he murdered for selfishness, for greed. He cared nothing for life, only his own glory. The blood he spilled was said to be enough to fill lakes as wide as oceans. He was worse than a monster. And Solas absorbed him into himself, willingly. 

He did this. He chose this.

"Put it back," he says, and he looks up, his face drawn, "This is not a burden you can bear." He is so pale, more than before, more, but his eyes are not so silver. They are tinged with blue again. It is enough to shock her.

And then she finds her voice.

"You are insane," she says, "Why? Why have you done this?"

He broke Falon'Din apart and took pieces of him. He contained a broken soul inside himself. All for what? He didn't need it. He didn't need Falon'Din's power.

"I had no choice," he says.

But he did and the thing inside her is screaming. It fights her, struggles to lash out at him. 

She believes Solas when he says this is not a burden she can bear, but it is too much for him as well. It will wear her down and it will start to take over. It will start to control her, manipulate her. Just as it did him. She can't let it happen. Somehow, there must be a way to stop it. 

But Solas does not get to blame his actions on this _thing_ . He destroyed the world long before he took it. His actions were his own. She will not give him excuses. 

"You're not getting it back," she says, and her hands are clenched. Her rage cools---it is still terrible, but it is cold. It is not an uncontrollable heat in her belly. It is a hard pit in her chest. 

He reaches for her, his hand still shaking. 

"You must, you can't keep it," he says, "You can't---"

She steps back. She pulls away. She needs to stop him, contain him, but she doesn't know how. They are still not evenly matched. He has had years to learn his powers, but she is still struggling. And now, with the shade of Falon'Din inside her, she is even less sure of herself. 

She can't stay. She can't wait and hope the right words will come, the right spells. He will recover and fight her and she will lose. She couldn't pull the other threads of magic from him. Only this, only Falon'Din, only the gray. 

She is afraid.

"Gods take you, Solas," she says. He tries to grab her sleeve, misses. He falls forward.

"No," he says, pushing himself up again, almost on his feet, "No. Come back."

She runs and he is screaming for her. Begging. Solas. Begging. But his legs won't hold him, they won't carry him after her. When she glances back, she sees him fall again. She doesn't know how much time she has. 

Griffin is rearing in his stall, in the stables. He throws himself against the door---the wood is soft, old, decaying. It splinters as she nears, it breaks and he thunders out. He rears again, backs up when she reaches for him. 

She thinks he is afraid and he is going to fight her, but then he turns to the side. He lowers, not much, but enough for her to climb onto his back. She doesn't bother with a saddle. She can't. There is no time.

Ice strikes the ground beside them. Frost curls out, white tendrils in the grass. But Griffin doesn't panic, he snorts. She feels no fear, only more anger.

Solas is still on his knees, still struggling, but his face is rage and desperation. He readies another spell--- even weakened, even as drained as he is, somehow, he manages. She sees the blue glow around his fingers, more ice. She flattens against Griffin, grips his mane and then he runs.

She hears each blast of magic as it strikes the ground.

Too close.

Too close.

Solas was too arrogant to close the gate before, too weary from his journey. He thought Morrigan would be more than enough to stop her. He thought there was no way she could get around her. There was no way she could outsmart him, and for the first time, she is glad to be underestimated. 

She is glad the gate is open now. She is glad she doesn't have to stop to wrestle it open, to give him time to collect himself. Her heart is racing and her tongue feels too thick in her mouth, too dry. It is hard to swallow.

Griffin carries her out of Skyhold. For now, at least, she is free.


	49. To Walk With Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn't think he would help her again.

Her stomach is empty and it is terrible. She has not eaten today and it has taken it's toll. She wonders if Morrigan is in the area, because game is scarce and the forest is too quiet. A dragon would explain much of this.

Cole finds her camped south of Denerim. She is alone and then he is sitting across from her, gazing into the campfire. He doesn't meet her gaze and he doesn't speak, he waits. Griffin noses at his back for a moment before he returns his attention to the distant shadows of the forest.

"Hello, Cole," she says. She doesn't know how he keeps finding her. Or why. He should not be here at all, not after the last time she saw him. He was afraid. He is afraid.

But right now, he looks...confused. She makes no move to touch him. She doesn't want to risk scaring him away again. The ride has been long and lonely and she has been jumping at every shadow. 

"You hurt yourself," he says, "To help _him_."

"Not him," she says, "Everyone." She feels the fragment of Falon'Din fighting her. Every moment it sits under her skin, she feels it grow stronger. It's no wonder Solas' control was so terrible. With this in her thoughts, she can't let herself relax.

It's like small fingers, nails sharpened to fine points, digging into her brain. Scraping, tearing. It feels like it is trying to burrow in as deep as he can. There is pain. There is always a cold, throbbing pain.

"Why?" he asks.

Right now, she doesn't know. It seems foolish. Solas wasn't in control, but she suspects he was doing a much better job. 

"Someone had to," she says, "And I was there. I suppose I was the only choice." Because she made herself the only choice. Somehow. Some way. She sees her fault in this, even more clearly than Solas.

"They want to see you," Cole says.

"Who?"

"Sera wants to rescue you," he says.

"I hope you told her what a terrible idea that was," she says. It is hard to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. She takes another drink of water from her canteen---she has had to stop several times at abandoned farm houses. She is not proud of sifting through the belongings of the dead, but it was unavoidable. She left with no supplies and only Griffin.

The water takes the edge off the hunger, but it is not going to work forever. 

"We can't tell her," he says and he is fidgeting, "Couldn't." His eyes are still that terrible blackness. 

"Sera is afraid of us," he continues. She is not imagining this. He sounds apologetic. 

"Then that's her problem," she says, "It's not yours to worry about."

Sera was never comfortable around the old Cole, this new one would be impossible to accept. She hopes someone has reigned her in, because she has no idea what Solas will do if he catches her on his doorstep. She doesn't even know what he'd do to her, let alone anyone else. She wonders if she has stepped over his limits. Perhaps the next time he sees her, he will just kill her outright.

"He thinks he's right," Cole says, "He still wants to help you. He still thinks he can."

"Yes, well, he can't," she says, "He only ever makes things worse."

She does not want this thing inside her. She wants it gone and she wants to sleep, but if she lets it out, where will it go? Somehow, she knows just freeing it would be worse than it consuming her. 

Cole seems to shrink in on himself again. He's thinking about hiding. She doesn't know how she knows, exactly, but she does. She can see it as clear as she can see him. He pulls his hat further down, over his eyes and he almost looks like the old Cole.

"We can't help," he says.

"So don't," she says, "Do what you want. Find something that makes you happy. Stay out of this mess." Save yourself, she thinks. 

"What we want?" he asks. Instead of despair or rage, she hears puzzlement. As if it never occurred to him.

"Yes, what you want," she says, "Forget what you think you're supposed to be or who you were, just forget it all and be free. Help yourself. You deserve more than this, Cole."

You are my friend, she thinks. 

"Just don't run around slaughtering the innocent, please," she says. But are there any left? Is there anyone who doesn't have blood on their hands?

"What we want," he says again, "We don't know." Despair again. The mournful tone of his voice makes her shoulders slump. 

"Don't worry about it, then," she says, "It'll come to you."

She knows what she wants. She wants quiet. She wants the world to make sense again.

But _they_ want to see her. Mahariel. Sera. There is no peace. 

"Where should I go to find them?" she asks. Her stomach growls again. Louder this time. She will have to figure something out soon or she will be too weak to go on. And wouldn't that be a funny thing? To steal power from Solas and then die of hunger. 

Cole hesitates. She hears the quick intake of breath and he seems to be considering something.

"Cole?" she asks. Please, don't disappear. Don't leave me without something, she thinks. She can't wander all of Thedas, blindly looking for Mahariel. She will never find him if she tries it that way.

"We---we will take you to them," he says, sounding unsure. Griffin turns, startled, and stares at him. He nudges his shoulder.

"You will?" she asks. And Cole looks at Griffin. He touches his forehead. 

"Yes? We will," he says. But when he turns back towards her, he looks miserable and uncertain and already regretful. She shakes her head.

"No, Cole, only if you want to," she says, "If you tell me where they are, I can still find them. It's alright."

But she does want him to go with her. Desperately. She doesn't want to be alone with this thing. She doesn't want to be alone with her own thoughts. She needs someone else to fill the silence. She is selfish. So selfish. She knows because he can read her. He knows all of this and it's making it hard for him. 

She can't turn off her thoughts. 

"We might want," Cole says, "We don't know."

She sighs. She should make the decision for him, send him on his way, but after Solas, she can't. He needs to decide for himself. He needs to make his own choices. 

She really doesn't want to be alone. She knows, but it is too heavy a weight. And she is tired. She takes another drink of water and wills her stomach to stop hurting. She is not terribly successful.

"Very well," she says, "Lead me as far as you wish. If you decide you need to leave, go and don't worry about me. I want you to be happy." She owes him that much. More, so much more. 

He doesn't speak, but he looks up. She can't be sure but she thinks she sees something there, something flickers in his eyes.

He watches over her while she sleeps.

 

The Fade shapes itself almost like Sylaise's ruined temple. The ground is littered with bones and ruined weapons. There are rusted blades and rotting bows. There is moldering armor. Broken leather. Shattered glass.

The air smells like smoke and blood.

It feels more like a memory than a dream but it is not one of hers.

There are too many shadows. She sees six red eyes, watching her from the dark.

"I can see you," she says.

It is a wolf for a moment and then it is a man in white silks and white fur. It is Solas, because of course, who else would it be? 

She has never seen him look this angry, but still, he doesn't speak. He waits. He watches. He is so full of emotion, she can almost see it, thick in the air around him. He doesn't bother with his usual mask. 

"I'm not giving it back. You're wasting your time here," she says. The way he looks at her makes her uncomfortable. Unblinking. Intense. 

Rage. So much rage.

"I am going to give you the chance to return of your own free will," he says. Something crunches under his feet when he starts toward her. She doesn't look, doesn't want to be reminded of the bones, the death surrounding them.

She laughs. 

"And then you'll kill me?" she asks, "How quickly you go from loving me and not being able to live without me, to murder. I'm not coming back. I'm not giving this thing to you."

He stops. His hands are fists at his sides, partially hidden by the long sleeves, but she can see the outline under the silk. She sees the way his shoulders tense. She sees the way his spine stiffens.

"I am not going to kill you," he says.

"You already did," she says, "And you didn't care. I was dead, Solas." And she can not put it out of her mind. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees it. Her body in his arms. Her eyes, empty, vacant.

There is a crack in his confidence and she can't still her hands. 

"I never meant to hurt you," he says. What is wrong with him? 

"You didn't just hurt me," she says, and she can't lower her voice, she is screaming, "Are you listening? You killed me." 

The crack widens. She sees remorse. She sees sadness. She sees shame. It does nothing to quiet her anger. Nothing he can say will match what she felt. She will never forget the fear.

"I am so sorry," he says, "It will never happen again. Never." She doesn't care. She was helpless to stop him. She trusted him, just that much, just that small bit. She didn't believe he would kill her, just hurt her, just stifle her, and she was wrong. He showed her that. She was so foolish. Stupid. 

Blind.

"I don't believe you," she says. Not this time. Not again. He has used up the last of her trust. 

"I meant what I said. I won't kill you. I couldn't. Never again." Something in his tone makes her shiver. Then what's the point, she wonders, where is the threat? 

"Don't push me any further, vhenan," he says, "I destroyed your world. You should know the lengths I will go to for the people I love. Even you. Especially you."

She wrestles with her fury, trying to keep it in check, trying to heed what little good sense remains. Because he is right. She can not afford bravado. He is dangerous. Always so dangerous.

And there are still people she cares about. There are people he can get to.

"Come back to Skyhold," he says, "Or tell me where you are and I will come to you."

"Explain Falon'Din," she says, "Tell me why. What did you do?" And how? Gods, take him. There are too many questions. She can't decide which one is the most pressing. 

"It should be obvious," he says, "I killed him. I took his power. I stopped him before he could become a bigger problem. No. There is no time for any of this. You must return what you've stolen. The longer we wait, the harder it will be." But she is not satisfied with his answer. There is more. She can feel the flutter of the soul fragment. She can hear it screaming. 

How did he live with this? How did he stand it?

"It corrupted you," she says, "You're not getting it back."

"It did not corrupt me," he says, "But if you think it did, how can you believe you will fare any better?"

He still can't see what he was. He thinks he was right. He thinks he was justified. Stupid. It is all so stupid. And how can she possibly convince him? He is too certain. He is too in love with his own counsel to consider her words. 

"You stole a piece of a soul, Solas, how is that wise?" she asks, "And not just a soul, but Falon'Din."

"It will be a simple thing to find your allies," he says, ignoring her, "How long do you think Sera will wait? Soon enough, she'll raid one my camps."

"You would hurt her to get to me," she says, "You should be ashamed." She doesn't know what she thought, but not this. With Falon'Din gone, she'd hoped. It was stupid and she knows it, but she had hoped he'd be different. She hoped he would hear her. See the truth again. 

"I am a monster," he says, "Or have you forgotten?" His voice is sharp. It is steel.

"I won't give you what you want," she says. Not even to save Sera. Not even to save herself. She feels sick but she can't waver. He is too dangerous. 

"Very well, if this is how it must be," he says. When he starts circling her, she feels like prey. She feels like there are sharp teeth at her throat and he is waiting for the right moment. Then, she feels the prickling in her thoughts. She feels him sifting, shuffling through everything as if it's just a deck of cards. As if her mind is nothing. As if she's nothing.

The fragment of Falon'Din almost chokes her with a rush of anger. Solas dares. He dares. 

"Bastard," she says, "Get out." She tries to focus on her anger, tries to keep it at the front of her mind. She tries to bury him under it. 

The prickling gets more insistent, stronger. It starts to burn behind her eyes. 

And the soul fragment fights her. It wants his blood to spill and his bones to crack. It wants to split his skin. She can almost hear the hiss of an unfamiliar voice---urging her, commanding her to kill him. It makes her hands shake. It makes her head ache. 

When she meets Solas' gaze, she sees he has heard it too. 

It is real. That voice. 

"Please," he says, "It will get so much worse than this. It will take you over."

"But I should give it to you?" she asks, "You're more powerful than I am. I won't deny it. What do you think will happen if it possesses you? Do you think any of us stand a chance?"

"I told you---"

"And I don't care," she counters, shouting, "I know you. I may not want to anymore, but I do. I saw what it did to you. If you insist upon violating my mind, do us both a favor and take a good look at what I've seen. You haven't been yourself for a while now. Look at my memories and tell me I'm wrong."

She doesn't think he will. The look on his face tells her that. He is closed off. He isn't listening to her. He is too busy trying to find her camp.

"I know what you think you saw," he says, at last, "I know how it looks, but you're wrong."

But she isn't. If he bothers to look, he'll know. He won't be able to deny it. 

"You killed me," she says.

"That doesn't mean---I never meant---"

"You did, " she says, "You did. I felt it. I saw your face." And it was terrifying.

She can't feel the prickling of his invasion any longer. She doesn't know if that means he has stopped or if she's just too angry to feel it. 

"Your hand on my throat, Solas, your magic. Why would I go back to a man who would do that to me?" she asks, "Either you were corrupted by Falon'Din or you did this on your own. Tell me. Which is it? Which one do I blame for my death? You or Falon'Din?"

"It is my fault, vhenan, mine alone."

"Then go fuck yourself, because I'm not giving you another chance to kill me," she says, "You hurt me once. You'll hurt me again. No more."

He is too close so she pushes him and he lets her. This can't keep happening. He can't keep coming into her dreams, her thoughts. There has to be a way to stop him. She has power now. There is a way. She'll find it.

"Ir abelas," he says, "I will find you. I will stop you."

"Just try it," she says, "See what it gets you." He reaches for her, his face pained. She hits his hand. She balls her hands into fists. She wants to break his nose.

She needs to. 

It is just a dream, but it will still hurt. 

_He killed us._

He raises his hand to block her, but he shouldn't have worried. 

She wakes to Cole's hand on her shoulder. Her hands are still balled into fists and she is unsatisfied.


	50. Be Vigilant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She feels like she's holding her breath, just waiting.

They head north west, avoiding Denerim. The stench of death is too strong. The air is choked with it.

She doesn't see Solas again in her dreams, but she feels him, watching. She feels the touch of his mind sifting through hers. Cole wakes her sometimes, but he isn't always quick enough. Still, Solas is out of luck though because Cole has kept their destination to himself. She has no idea where he's taking her. Doesn't want to know until they arrive.

Solas knows she's traveling with him.

Cole sits behind her on Griffin's back, silent. She can't even hear him breathing. Does he breathe? Does he need to? He is different now, she doesn't know. He only talks when she asks him a question. His answers are short. Blunt.

"Can you teach me how to keep Solas out of my mind?" she asks.

He lets the question hang before he answers. She feels him turn his head, the brim of his hat bumping against her hair, catching on the strands that have worked their way loose.

"No," he says, "We can't help." 

She wonders if that means he doesn't know how or that he won't try. 

"We can't," he repeats, as if that neatly answers all her questions.

He is emotionless, calm, and she is glad for that.

She is not calm. She is stretched too thin and the flutter of Falon'Din's rage is her one constant. She can not breathe without it being there. She sleeps and it finds her in the Fade. She wakes and she feels it. In the quiet moments, it is a crescendo. It is the heavy crash of waves on a battered shore and she is the shore. 

It is terrible. 

She has made a mistake.

Again. 

She is curious about one thing though. They see none of Solas' patrols. She thinks, he must have called them all back. Why else would they disappear so suddenly? She wonders if it's because he's afraid of what she'll do now, if he thinks she's already lost her sense of reason, her mercy.

They stop when they find an abandoned house, when hunger demands it. There is an overgrown garden out back---mostly weeds, but she spies a few potato plants. Everything else has been devoured by wild animals. 

She is too hungry to care. She digs up one of the plants, finds a few sad looking spuds, and roasts them as best she can. Cole sits near Griffin and watches. She gets the impression he's studying her. 

It is unnerving. 

The whisper in her mind agrees. _Kill him too_. And then, she is horrified. Never, she tells it. Never in a thousand years. 

Cole looks up at her. He doesn't smile.

 

Cole takes her to the old grey warden's castle, Vigil's Keep. She recognizes it from the stories. But she sees no grey wardens and the gates are shut tight. She thinks, maybe this is all wrong.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" she asks.

When she turns, expecting to see him, she sees only empty space and hears only silence. Cole is gone. Again. And Griffin is gone as well. 

She can't really blame him. The whisper is persistent. It doesn't hate him as much as it hates Solas, but it still hates. It still rages. And Cole can hear everything it says to her. It is no wonder he won't stay. She is saddened. Sickened.

She hears footsteps on the stone walkway above.

"You," a voice says, familiar and rough and surprised. 

She sees a shock of white hair and then he's gone. After a moment, she hears a heavy thud and scratching behind the wall. The gate opens. 

Fenris greets her with his signature scowl and a curt nod. She expects him to draw his sword or make her wait for Mahariel, but he doesn't. He gestures for to come in and when he does, he secures the gate behind her. She tries not to look at long line of graves, the wooden markers gouged deep with each name. Dwarven names. Human names.

Nathaniel. Oghren. Sigrun. Voldrik. Woolsey. Garevel---

"You're lucky," Fenris says, "Merrill made us wait." She tears her gaze away. 

"She knew I was coming?" she asks. Merrill is a strange one, powerful, but she couldn't have known---

"She said a friend told her," he says, "I don't want to know."

Oh. She understands. Cole. And no, he doesn't want to know. If half of Varric's stories of him have a sliver of truth in them, he would not be comforted to know about a broken spirit boy. She imagines his reaction would be similar to Sera's. Undisguised horror. Disgust. Fear. 

The Grey Wardens aren't here. The Red Jennies aren't here either. When Fenris leads her into the Keep, she counts six, including him---Mahariel and Zevran, Sera and Velanna, and finally Merrill.

"Ooh, there you are!" Merrill says, her face lighting up. She's sitting on the floor, surrounded by books. She waves. Zevran is sitting near her, at the center of a circle of maps, humming quietly. He pauses long enough to give her a wink and then he's back to tracing faded pathways with his fingertips. 

Mahariel is hunched over a table cluttered with papers and more books. Velanna is beside him, shuffling through a brittle tome, her face twisted in frustration. And Sera is throwing knives at a target on the wall, at a badly drawn stick figure with an enormous head---it is nearly three times as big as the sad little stick body. When Lavellan squints, she sees Sera has drawn the world's tiniest penis and balls between its legs. Almost too small to make out. The poor stick man is cross eyed as well. 

Sera stops when she sees her.

"You have got to be joking," she says.

Lavellan thinks she's going to punch her, but then she's tackling her, arms around her shoulders, squeezing too hard. When she pulls back, she's grinning.

"Hello to you too," Lavellan says.

"Your plans are shite, you know that right?" she asks, "Next time, how about you don't go handing yourself over to your crazy arse ex boyfriend? I had him right where I wanted him."

Lavellan snorts.

"Of course you did," she says, "You're welcome, by the way."

"Yeah, right, thanks I guess. I'm glad we're not dead," Sera says, "But no. Don't do that again." She punches her too hard in the arm. Then she goes back to throwing knives at her horrible drawing. 

"I'll try," Lavellan says.

"Tell me you at least tried to set him on fire," Sera says, "Once maybe? Where'd the tit take you? Couldn't find you in his stupid castle."

Lavellan's breath catches. The thought of Sera in his castle is horrifying. She wouldn't have gone. Not really. Solas wouldn't have been able to resist. His people would have known to watch for her---but Lavellan doesn't want to think about this, talk about this. It's Sera asking, though, and Lavellan owes her more than a curt "don't ask".

"Skyhold," she says. And Sera's arm slips. The knife embeds itself in the edge of the paper rather than the enormous, poorly drawn head.

When Mahariel looks up, she sees dark circles and weary eyes. She sees exhaustion. He smiles anyway.

"You look well all things considered," he says.

"Yes, well, I'd say the same, but you look like ---"

"Shit," he says, cutting her off, "I know. I'm just as surprised. Did you know, for all their secrets, the wardens were not terribly good at writing things down? I could cheerfully strangle them all if they weren't already dead."

"What?" she asks.

"Sorry, not all of them," he says, "Just most. We ran into a bit of trouble after you left."

"What does that mean? How many are left?" she asks. There is a hollow feeling in her stomach. But before he can answer, Velanna is clearing her throat, she's glaring at him.

"Eleven." Velanna snaps, "And that's counting the two of us. Now, will you please pay attention? Someone else can fill her in. This is important." She flips another page.

"What happened?" Lavellan asks, "What about the Jennies? Are they alright?" But she doesn't want an answer. There weren't many Grey Wardens to begin with, but eleven? Eleven. And there were too few Jennies left. Even the loss of one is too much. Dalish and Skinner, Loranil---

"Jennies are just fine," Sera says, "They went with the other Wardens. Got things to do."

She does not feel better. The fragment of Falon'Din screams louder, still fighting her. Still demanding her concentration. It aches. It burns for revenge. 

"But what---"

"No," Fenris says, surprising her, his hand briefly touching her shoulder, "It's too fresh. Later we'll talk about it, but right now, just---leave it. We made a mistake." 

She doubts that. She doubts that very much. If anyone's to blame, it's probably Solas. It's probably his forces. Not the Wardens. Not Mahariel or the Jennies or anyone else.

 _kill him_ The whisper is too loud, too insistent, and she is too tense. It feels like a jolt of a lightning spell across her nerves. It makes an odd look flutter across Fenris' face. He notices too much, she thinks. He can tell she's not doing well. Somehow. It would be easier if he hadn't noticed at all. She needs time to process this. She needs to restore a measure of calm before she tells them.

And she has to tell them. She has to tell them everything. She knows, but she doesn't want to. Not now. Not when they're finally welcoming her. Not when they finally want her here. 

Everything is going to change. Sera will be afraid of her. Like Cole. 

She can't. She can't. She can't.

Her lungs ache and she realizes she has forgotten to breathe again. None of this is fair.

"What's wrong?" Fenris asks, his voice suspicious, his eyes darkening. She expects him to step away, to cross his arms or reach for his sword. But he just stands there, staring at her. 

She takes a breath. She lets it out slow.

"We need to talk," she says, "And I---it's not good." And now, she has their attention, all of them, Velanna included.

The look Mahariel shoots her is one of concern. She doesn't doubt he can hear the hesitation in her voice. He shuts his eyes. He sighs. When he looks at her again, his gaze is determined.

"Tell us," he says.

She does.

Their faces go from shock to concern, but that is all. They don't bury her under accusations. Sera and Fenris are horrified. Sera's knuckles are white and she grips her knives too hard. Lavellan can see it from here. Fenris moves away and the hard look she's used to seeing in his eyes is back. 

Mahariel is---pleased.

She tells him a piece of Falon'Din is in her head, telling her to kill, and he thinks it's time for a party. He has lost his mind. He should not be smiling. He should not be this relaxed.

"It wants you to kill the Dread Wolf, not any of us, we can be friends," Mahariel says.

"With Falon'Din? No, Mahariel, that's stupid," Velanna says, "If we don't deal with it now while it's still weak, we might not be able to force it out." She sets her book aside. She pinches the bridge of her nose and her lips move as though she's counting.

"Well, obviously," he says, "But it's not a problem yet. We have time. We have other things we have to handle first."

Lavellan is getting another headache. He can't be serious. He can't. There is no time. None at all. 

"But Sylaise's orb," he says, "This is the first good news we've had in too long."

She is beyond baffled. He acts like she found a pretty new staff that can just be picked up and pointed in the right direction. He acts like this is simple. It's not. It never is.

"I don't know how to use any of it," she says.

'But you will," Velanna says, "With time."

"We don't have time," she counters, "He's coming. He has been reading my thoughts. That's how he was able to stay ahead of us. He knew everything. So either we go or I have to learn how to survive without sleep, because once I enter the Fade, he'll find me. He'll find out."

"You can't tell me anything," she adds. Not where they're going. Not what they plan to do next. Not even what they're making for breakfast. 

Merrill clears her throat as she stands.

"That's not entirely true," she says, "I might have an idea."

"You know how to keep the Dread Wolf out of my mind?" she asks. She can't hide her doubt. 

"I don't know for certain but it's worth a try," Merrill says And she tilts her head, her gaze shifting inwards. Fenris stares at her, his shoulders stiffening---as if he knows where she's going with this. As if he knows he isn't going to like it. 

"Blood magic?" he asks.

Merrill braces herself.

"No. Maybe," she says, "Yes. Don't look at me like that."

Merrill expects him to yell at her. Lavellan can tell by the way she angles away from him, from the way she cringes. Lavellan thinks he might, but then the fight goes out of him. He slumps. He still looks like he thinks it's a terrible idea, but he retreats instead of shouting it to the sky. He doesn't snarl.

Lavellan has no experience with blood magic. He could be right. This could be a massively awful idea. But it's nothing new. Everything they've done has turned out horribly.

But Lavellan is desperate. She can't pick and choose what help she takes. And this is still better than brow beating Cole. 

"Do what you can," she says.


	51. A Keeper Does Not Falter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She feels the change.

Fenris pulls her aside.

"I didn't say it before," he says, his voice rough, his eyes downcast, "Thank you."

"For what?" she asks.

"For doing what you did. I would be dead right now," he says, "I know it wasn't an easy choice. I---I didn't trust you and I made sure you knew. I was wrong. You're not one of the Dread Wolf's spies. I know now. And---that's all I wanted to say." He crosses his arms over his chest. 

She doesn't know what he's talking about at first. He's the one who saved her life back in June's temple. She's done nothing but get them in trouble. And then she feels stupid because he's talking about Hunter Fell and Solas. 

"Oh," she says, "I didn't do anything. There wasn't really a choice. "

He looks irritated so she stops. 

"Don't," he says, "False modesty is pointless. I saw your face. You wanted to run but you didn't. You traded yourself for our lives." 

This is hard for him to say. She can tell by the slump of his shoulders and how he looks everywhere but at her. When he does risk meeting her eyes, she reads his embarrassment. His regret is...genuine.

"Thank you," she says. She doesn't even like him, not really, but her eyes are hot and her face is hot and she is _not_ going to cry.

She looks away and he shuffles back. He uncrosses his arms and holds them stiff at his sides.

"I just wanted you to know before," he says, pausing, stumbling over the words, "Don't let Merrill do the spell. She---means well, perhaps, but it is too dangerous. It is foolish."

She doesn't want to argue with him but it is there, hanging in the air between them. There is no choice.

"If there was another way," she says, her voice trailing off.

It is the wrong thing. He makes a sharp sound and turns, unwilling---refusing to hear any more excuses. He leaves her scrambling to put her thoughts together. She is not surprised but after his thanks she is confused. She feels raw.

 

Merrill's spell takes all of three seconds and when it's done she doesn't feel any different. 

"Is that it?" she asks.

"I think?" Merrill asks, and that is not a good sign. 

"You don't know?"

"Well, yes, that was the spell, but we won't exactly know until the Dread Wolf tries to read your mind," she says, "I had to cobble something together."

"You had to what?" Fenris asks. 

"Cobble something---I took an old spell and changed it," Merrill says, "The original spell would have forced her to fight along side us, but now, it should deflect any attempts to reach into her mind. It should work against coercion as well. Indefinitely. Maybe. As I said, I don't really know."

But then she adds, "If you start to feel funny, let me know. The old spell sort of made people explode a little as it wore off." Lavellan pretends she doesn't hear the gasp from Velanna or the groan from Zevran. 

"It sort of made people explode," Lavellan repeats, "A little." She is not going to panic. She is not going to panic. 

"Huh," Mahariel says, "Well." Huh, well---as if it's not horrible at all. As if he sees this kind of thing all the time. As if there's no cause for panic.

She tries to breathe, but she is struck by the image of her body bursting. No doubt Fenris is inwardly gloating, as horrible as it all is. He did warn her. She can't pretend otherwise. 

Perhaps Solas was right too. Perhaps she was safer with him.

The soul fragment is unimpressed with her assessment. It is more a hiss now than a whisper. She feels like it is coiling around her, squeezing tighter and tighter. 

_Anything is better than him---harellan, murderer._

"I don't think we have anything to worry about," Merrill says, "But I thought it best to warn you, just in case. We'll know in a few minutes." Velanna turns her back abruptly. She bends over the table and starts gathering papers and covering things. Covering things as if there is a very real chance Lavellan is going to explode. 

"That's not comforting," Fenris says. He leans on his sword, but he is ready to strike if he has to---if she turns into something horrible instead of just exploding into a fine red paste.

"Well excuse me, but I'm doing my best," she says.

"Still not comforting," Fenris says, "At all." He's right. It isn't. 

"Don't worry, Merrill," Mahariel says, grinning again, "I'm sure it will be fine. You don't give yourself enough credit." But he looks concerned now. There is a wrinkle in his forehead that wasn't there a second ago. 

"I feel fine," Lavellan says, "I feel exactly the same as I did before." But does that even mean anything? How would she know? 

"That's good," Merrill says, "See, everything turned out the way it was supposed to."

But Fenris is still eying her as if she's about to grow extra teeth and horrifying appendages and spit fire. And Velanna has finished tucking their research materials out of range. She stands with her arms crossed, her lips curving down in worried frown. She isn't any more confident that Merrill knows fuck all what she's doing.

Merrill huffs when she notices. She wrinkles her nose. 

"Oh come on," she says, "She's fine. When's the last time one of my spells failed? Give me one example."

Fenris starts to open his mouth, but he stops. He looks past them, his eyes glazing over as he thinks about it. His eyebrows go up a bit. He shakes his head. 

"That's what I thought," Merrill says and she seems pleased. 

And Lavellan bites the inside of her cheek. How can Merrill expect them to be at ease when she just said she wasn't sure? That the spell was cobbled together. That it usually ended with the subject exploding. 

But she, thankfully, does not explode. 

She has no idea if the spell even worked, but she raids the kitchen while they hold their strategy meeting. Just in case it didn't work. Just in case Solas can still reach into her mind. 

 

Sera reemerges in time for dinner---in fact, she probably made dinner, Lavellan thinks. She watches as Sera sits beside Fenris, red eyed and subdued and unusually quiet. She drinks more than she should and eats less than she should and every time someone tries to talk to her she snaps at them. 

Mahariel is another thing entirely. He is brimming over with nervous energy. He flits from table to table, trying to coax smiles out of everyone. He takes his failure with Sera a bit too seriously, and it almost ends with a knife in his leg. 

She is not in the mood to be teased. 

Mahariel tries to rally. He sings. Loudly. Badly. 

And as Lavellan stuffs her face with bread---real and actual fresh bread---and roasted vegetables and chicken, Zevran plops down beside her. She thinks he's laughing at Mahariel, but then she catches him looking at her and she realizes she's got her sleeve dipped in gravy.

"You know, I've heard a funny thing," Zevran says, he leans in, pretending to whisper, "If you stop to chew the food, it tastes better. Also, you avoid choking to death. If you're into that kind of thing."

She puts down her fork and tries to wipe her sleeve on her poor, neglected napkin. She is still too hungry to be embarrassed. 

"Thanks for the tip," she says, her mouth still full. If she's being honest, she'll admit she hasn't really tasted any of it. 

He laughs again. 

"If it will ease your mind, I will help guard your plate while you eat," he says, "No one will dare to steal from the wise and beautiful Inquisitor if an Antivan Crow is in her employ. You'll find my prices are quite competitive."

"You're odd," she says. There is no wine and the ale is over powering, but she takes a long drink anyway.

He grins and then Mahariel plops down beside him, an arm stretching across his shoulders.

"Zevran, are you trying to swindle Ellana out of her dessert?"

"There's dessert?' she asks.

"It's not swindling. I'm offering a valuable service for a fair and reasonable price," Zevran says, "So yes. Her dessert."

There is something small and cake like on her plate. The top is a thin sugar glaze. 

"Oh, this," she says. And Zevran is leaning a little too close to her. His arm is touching hers. She picks up her fork and brandishes it like a sword. She doesn't even know what it is but it smells like butter and honey and she wants it. She wants at least ten. 

"Dessert thievery is punishable by death, so don't even think about it," she says. But she smiles and then he is laughing again, his hands up in surrender. 

Mahariel lets go of Zevran and puts his elbows on the table.

"Now that we're all friends again," he says, "Was there anything you needed? Wanted? We're starting out early tomorrow so we should take care of everything tonight."

She arches an eyebrow.

"Mahariel talking business at dinner, will wonders never cease?" she asks.

"I know, lethallan, I know," he says, "To make it up to myself, I'm going to spend the next three days being completely ridiculous at all times. But in the mean time, yes, business. Anything you find that hasn't already been claimed is fair game. I assume you want another staff since yours seems to have gone missing." 

He is trying not to look pained. This was his castle and the Grey Wardens who lived here were directly under his command. She had forgotten. This can't be easy for him. Being back here, seeing it empty like this. And the graves. She wonders if they had to bury everyone themselves.

And that is horrible. How can he still smile?

"There are supplies if you want to try to make one yourself," he continues.

She shakes herself. That is something she hasn't considered. 

"Yes," she says, "I think I'd like that." She elbows Zevran when his hand comes a little too close to her glazed roll. He could easily have stolen it without her noticing. She knows that. But he wants her to see him.

"So cruel," he says, pretending to be hurt. 

"Mine," she says, and she takes a bite out of it. She tastes the honey and butter but she has no idea what else. It is not her favorite thing, but after the last few days, it tastes like the single best thing in existence.

 

She finds Sera after the meal and is relieved to see she's almost back to her old self. She makes a rude gesture at Velanna and steals paper out of Merrill's bag. She draws another inappropriate picture of Solas and sticks it to the wall for more target practice.

This time she draws a giant butt on the poor stick man. She draws an arrow sticking out of the left cheek.

Sera doesn't run screaming when Lavellan approaches her. She takes it as a positive.

"Don't want to talk about it," Sera says before she can get a word out. She expected this though. Sera doesn't talk, she does things. Lavellan knows, you don't have heart to hearts, you distract her with pranks. She'll know Sera's fine when she laughs. 

"Mahariel claims there are raw materials lying around. I was hoping you could help me find them. I need to make another staff," she says. She hopes among those raw materials she finds partially constructed staffs. She is not terribly confident about her abilities to complete everything in one short evening.

Sera looks at her, a scowl tugging at her lips.

"Hey, I'm fine," Sera says, "And I said I don't want to talk about it. I'll help you find things but you start picking at me and you're waking up with lizards on your face. Got it?"

"Who said anything about talking?" she asks.

"Good because no," Sera says. She tucks the knife into her boot.

"He was probably talking about that old stuff out front. Smithy up and bit it and left a bunch of boxes," she adds.

She isn't kidding. There are boxes and boxes of supplies. Not all of it is usable, but there's enough to make a staff. Too much of it is iron or silverite. Neither is her favorite metal. Neither of it is going to work for what she has in mind.

Sera helps her pry open the last box and Lavellan can't believe their good luck. There are dragon bones, dragon scales, and dragon webbing. Just enough for one staff. Just enough if she keeps it small. 

Sera clears her throat.

"So I was wondering," she says. She sits back on her heels and picks at her nails.

"Go ahead," Lavellan says. She can't stop herself from tensing up. Sera's questions are not often comfortable. It is probably about Falon'Din or the blood magic. It is probably going to be something she can't answer.

"Right, ok," she says, "Solas, yeah? He didn't---I mean, I can put an arrow in his butt from a good distance, if you want. Still got some explosives . I dunno, I'm just saying. Either way, it's all the same."

"I didn't understand much of that," she says.

Sera huffs. She rubs the back of her neck and shifts.

"Okay, maybe, try this again," she says, "He didn't hurt you or anything, right? Because the way I figure, he has to have done something if blood magic sounds like a good idea."

She is not prepared for this. Sera being serious about things. What does she even say? No, Sera, he only killed me once. Only for a few seconds. I got better.

Sera's face twists and there's only rage.

"No, not like you're thinking," Lavellan says, quick to correct whatever assumptions Sera has made.

"What did he do then?"

She takes a long breath. She shuts her eyes for a second. Getting him out of her mind is more than enough of a reason to resort to blood magic, but she's right. For someone who goes out of her way to avoid this particular type of conversation, she has seen through to the heart of it.

"Don't get crazy on me or anything," she says, "Promise you'll stay calm."

"No, fuck that, what did he do?'

Shit. Fine.

"He accidentally killed me, for a few seconds," she says. More like a minute. Too long. 

Emotion ripples across Sera's fast, too fast and too much to read. Her hands clench and she looks like she's going to hit her. But she doesn't. She glares.

"Accidentally what? You'd think by now you'd have run out of excuses for that one," she says, "Dead is dead. That's what you were, right? Dead. And he did it. On purpose. Because maybe someone else can kill some one by accident, but not him. He does it all on purpose. You know that? Tell me you know that so I don't have to punch you."

She spits it out, and Lavellan feels all of two feet tall. She's right. Even now, she's still sugar coating the truth. As if she doesn't want her friend to hate him for what he's done. Even though she hates him herself, even though.

But she doesn't hate him and that's where this keeps going wrong. She needs to hate him. 

"I do know," she says.

"Then bloody well act like it!" Sera snaps.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, "I'm here, aren't I?"

 _Kill Him_ \---the voice again, too loud in her head. It startles her, throws her off, makes it hard to concentrate on what Sera's saying. Shut up, she thinks. She tries to force it down. She tries to blot it out.

"You don't even look like you care," Sera says. Her voice snaps her back to attention.

"I was dead. I think I care," she says, "Deeply."

And some of the fight seems to go out of her. She hunches forward. She goes back to picking at her nails.

"Forget the rest of us, but he's supposed to give a fuck about you," Sera says, and Lavellan feels that in her gut. He loved her and he killed her. What would he do to someone he hates?

Sera gets to her feet. She doesn't smile, doesn't laugh. She looks at Lavellan and gives her an uncomfortable nod.

"I'm gonna get back to it, ok," she says, "Glad you didn't stay dead. Not enough of us left. You need something else---right. "

Sera leaves Lavellan to struggle with a pile of dragon bones and webbing and it's really for the best. What can she say after that? 

Her new staff is Dalish. It is fashioned after Keeper Deshanna's, not nearly as strong as Forgewright, but it feels good in her hands. It feels right.

But right now, it is the only thing that does.


	52. A Fool's Errand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a chance he's telling the truth.

Mahariel leads them into the Deep Roads. She doesn't know why she's as surprised as she is.

Solas doesn't trouble her dreams. She doesn't feel the prickling in her mind, but she needs better confirmation Merrill's spell worked before she dares lower her guard. If she lowers it at all. 

But she is just about dying to ask where Mahariel is leading them. She can't imagine they'll find another Elvhen temple or another orb. Not here. Not in the dark. Elgar'nan and Andruil and Ghilan'nain and Dirthamen would not be in the Deep Roads. Surely they would have hidden their power in the forests or the mountains or even the deserts. 

She eyes Mahariel when they stop for the night and wonders if she should even try to tell him what a bad idea this is.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, "I've already heard it all from Fenris."

"Then maybe you should have listened," she says, and Fenris chokes on a laugh. They are probably wasting their time and are going to run into something horrifying they'll have to fight. More red lyrium priests. More corrupted Sha-Brytol. And deepstalkers, so many deepstalkers. 

Mahariel doesn't bother to hide his smile.

"It will be worth it," he says, "Maybe. If our luck holds."

"It won't," Fenris says. And she believes him. Even now there are terrible things in the dark

The cavern they've chosen to rest in is vast and deep. Just a glimpse over the edge makes her dizzy. She can't see the bottom and the only light comes from torches and wisps and faintly glowing moss. She is glad they don't have the darkspawn to worry about because fighting here would be disastrous.

She hopes they are too high up to have to worry about the Sha-Brytol. 

She feels like she's being watched.

 

Solas breaks his silence that night. He pulls her into a swirling, gray nothingness, but he is different. He doesn't leech the warmth from the world. Darkness doesn't surround him. He does not choke the air with his magic.

He looks haggard and worn. He doesn't bother to shape the Fade or himself. His expression is severe.

She can't help herself. She asks.

"Are you alright?"

He softens. He lets out a long breath. He is wearing his favorite sweater and it is filthy. There is a new hole n the front, by the collar, and there is a tear at the left wrist. 

"No," he says, "I am not."

_Good_ and the thought belongs to Falon'Din. His intrusions are getting more frequent. He is harder to ignore.

"You look better," she says, "And worse." Without the darkness, she can see him and he looks like himself. She isn't afraid.

"I have not slept," he says, and then he adds, "In days."

For Solas, that is impossible. He needs sleep the way normal people need air. He must be desperate if he's keeping himself awake. 

She almost tells him to take better care of himself---it is reflexive, instinctive, but that would send the wrong message.The dark circles under his eyes are alarming. She wants to reach out and touch his face. 

The rumble of Falon'Din's protest is all that stops her. Reminds her. She shouldn't care about his well being at all. 

_Everything he says and does is a lie._

"What trouble have you gotten yourself into?" she asks.

"The only trouble is yours," he says, "I have found a way you can expel Falon'Din. I don't expect you to trust me, so I won't bother to ask you to let me help you. You can transfer the soul into an object of your choosing and you can do it yourself. It is the least I can do after---just, don't dismiss it because it comes from me. Please."

_Harellan---we will not be deceived again_

She shivers. 

"As far as I know, I'd be transferring the soul right back into you, "she says, "How can you even think I'd trust you enough to try it?"

"How?" he asks, his voice is flat and his eyes are dull, "I am flattered you think I'm powerful enough to steal the magic, like this, from a distance, but I am not. I can show you the spell, and you can share it with your...friends. You can research it yourself."

But it is not that simple. He knows this. 

"Solas---"

"Do you not tire of the voice?" he asks, "It wears on you, even now. Do you not wish to be rid of it?" The force of it makes her step back. 

"Did you?" she asks. She does, though. She is tired of it, but giving it back to him is worse than keeping it.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I regret it," he says, "If I could go back, I'd stop myself."

But he wouldn't go back to save the world. He wouldn't stop himself then. Not for Dorian. Not for Cole. Not for anyone. And this is not a comfort. She doesn't feel special, she doesn't feel loved. She feels like a thing he settled for when he couldn't have what he really wanted.

It hurts. She'd be lying if she said it didn't. 

_Kill him, kill him now_

"Enough, Solas, we've been over this," she says. It doesn't matter what he meant to do, what matters is what he did. But if he's telling the truth, if he's being honest about the spell, where does that leave her? What does it mean?

_He can't be trusted_

She could lose everything. The soul, Sylaise's magic, her allies, herself, her resolve. Everything.

"Look at yourself," he says, and he stops just short of touching her, but she can tell he wants to, "You haven't even noticed, have you? You've changed. There is a darkness around you now---" He leans in just a little. His gaze sweeps down and then up again.

Her breath is gone and she feels a spike of terror. He is wrong. She isn't. He is a liar and he is trying to unsettle her. 

But when she looks down she sees the tendrils of smoke, the blackness that once surrounded him. It coils around her and it is cold. The darkness was Falon'Din. It is Falon'Din. She knows, somehow. This is not one of his tricks. 

"Show me the spell," she says, and her voice breaks. _No, we can't. We won't._

He does and she is afraid. 

 

Something pokes the tip of her nose. She bats it away but it returns. Then, it moves to her forehead. It thumps her hard and it hurts.

When she opens her eyes, Sera is inches from her face, her fingers poised to flick her again. 

"I'm awake," she protests.

Sera pulls back, moves so she can sit up properly. 

"Did it work?" Sera asks.

"Did what work?"

She scowls, "The stupid spell. Did it keep the Dread Egg out?"

Lavellan rubs the sleep from her eyes. Did it? She thinks so, but she doesn't really know. It doesn't seem like he was reading her. He didn't answer any questions before she asked. He didn't respond to any of her thoughts.

Did he?

"Maybe," she says.

Sera snorts.

"Maybe, she says, maybe," Sera says, "Blood magic and you don't even know if it worked."

"Sera," Mahariel says, and there is a warning in his tone. He looks like he hasn't slept at all. The circles under his eyes rival the ones under Solas' eyes. 

"What? We're all thinking it," Sera says.

Lavellan sighs. It is too early and she is too tired for this fight.

"As far as I can tell, it did," she says, "He gave me a spell to get Falon'Din out of my head. I don't know if he's telling the truth, but we should at least look at it."

The circle of faces around the campfire tells her she is alone in her thinking. Except for Merrill. Merrill's gaze has gone thoughtful, soft. Velanna looks like she's going to shove Lavellan off the edge, though, into the darkness. Maybe that would be for the best.

"The Dread Wolf gave you a spell," she says, "And you think he might be trying to be helpful. Do I need to point out just how stupid that sounds?" Mahariel makes a pained noise and leans with his elbows on his knees and his palms on his face. Then, he turns his back on the rest of them and starts rustling through his bags. She doesn't know what he's looking for, but she thinks, he has the right idea. She would like to pretend she isn't having this discussion. 

"What's one more stupid idea?" Zevran asks, "We have so many, why stop now? In fact, I think we should just stop trying to be smart altogether. Let us just focus on being sexy. I already have a head start, but I'll wait for the rest of you to catch up. Shall I remove my pants?" She doesn't think he means it until he tugs at his laces and Merrill makes a high pitched, horrified squeal. She scrambles over to sit beside Mahariel. 

"NO," Velanna and Fenris and Sera respond in unison. Too loud. It echoes. 

Zevran pretends to look hurt but he fails. How is he this cheerful first thing in the morning? How? 

"Very well, then, another time," he says, already back to grinning, "Does anyone else want breakfast?"


	53. Trail of Dust and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel's plans truly are terrible.

They pass two silent thaigs and are almost through a third before Mahariel tells her where they're going. Falon'Din's soul fragment has gone silent, but it stirs when she hears. 

This thaig is partially buried. The stone is blackened in many places. Cracked and Crumbling. Rusted blades and broken shields and shattered bone litter the ruins. The bodies of the ancient dead are still scattered throughout the destruction. No one came to bury them. 

She expects demons or the undead to attack, but there is only the quiet dark. She still does not feel like they are alone.

And there are broken Tevinter statues at the gate, at their exit. The metal gleams even in the dim torchlight. It looks just as strange here as June's temple. Out of place. Wrong.

Mahariel quickens his pace.

"Good. This is good," he says. He still doesn't sound quite like himself. He is tense and curt and focused on a point in the distance.

"Getting close then?" she asks, and he nods.

"Should be just up ahead," Mahariel says, "I doubt there's any harm in telling you now. It's Razikale's prison." 

Her heart stutters. He might as well have said they were going to wake Elgar'nan, because Razikale is an Old God. It is a creature that could have and would have started another blight if the darkspawn had found and tainted it. 

She is the old god of mystery, if Lavellan is recalling correctly, and if she'd known this was his goal she would have stayed behind. 

The fragment of Falon'Din is quiet but she can feel a flutter of...excitement. Hope? Recognition? She isn't sure what it is but it fills her with dread. 

"You have lost your mind," she says.

"Funny, I said the same thing," Fenris says. He falls to the back with Sera.

"Desperate times," Mahariel says, "We are running out of options."

"Desperate is one thing, but this is---" she starts.

"Suicidal?" Fenris finishes, "Yes, I believe I covered that too." She expects Zevran to chime in, but he has gone quiet. He is more tense than she's seen him. More serious. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is a grim line. 

It is one thing when Fenris is quiet and serious, but it's another thing entirely when it's Zevran. 

But an old god. They can't really mean to do this. 

"But what do we do when we find her?" she asks, "Wake her up and ask her to kindly help us? I doubt it will be that simple." Gods do not help, they demand sacrifice. They take what they want when they want it. They give nothing for free.

Not even for a worthy cause.

"We don't know where the other elvhen orbs are," Velanna says, but her tone tells Lavellan she is unconvinced. She is just parroting Mahariel's words back at her,"This is the best chance we have. Coincidentally it's also our best chance to unleash something worse than the Dread Wolf." 

"Then why are we doing it?" she asks.

"Good luck getting an answer," Fenris says, "I'm still waiting."

And Mahariel doesn't answer. He helps Merrill over a downed pillar blocking their path---she is humming, a faraway look in her eyes. Velanna ignores his hand when he offers it and finds her own way. When it's Lavellan's turn to climb over the obstruction, though, he pulls her up and holds her hand for too long while the others climb up after her. 

"Tell me," he says, "Have you unlocked Sylaise's powers yet?"

She feels her cheeks heat.

_I could show you_ , and Falon'Din is a whisper again. It feels less like a fragment and more like the voice of an actual person, something whole and not broken. 

_It is an easy thing._

She shivers but she is not cold. Shut up, just shut up. She wills it to shrivel and die, but it responds with a flutter of laughter. 

"Not yet," she says.

It is another failure, another thing she doesn't even begin to know how to tackle. 

_You can't protect them._

"Do you know where another orb might be?" he asks, still holding her hand, "Elgar'nan? Andruil? Any of them?"

"No, I don't," she says, and he squeezes her hand before he finally lets go. But there is nothing reassuring about it. His smile is small, sad, and he wears the look of a man who isn't sure any of them are going to survive.

"Then what other choice is there?" he asks.

"We could go somewhere Solas can't find us," she says, "We can bide our time, rebuild our numbers." 

She doesn't really believe it would work, but this is an old god. That kind of power is too much. They can't hope to defeat it. Mahariel may have defeated an archdemon and stopped a blight, but Razikale isn't corrupted like an archdemon. It will be stronger.

"I think we both know the Dread Wolf won't sit idly by while we run away," he says.

He is right. She knows. Solas will follow. As long as she's with them and as long as she has Sylaise's magic, he will come. 

"What happened to the other Grey Wardens?" she asks.

She doesn't know why she asks---it just comes out. Mahariel drops to the ground and starts walking again and the mood is suddenly very, very tense. Velanna's spine is too stiff. Zevran is still too quiet and Merrill has stopped humming.

And it seems like no one's going to answer her.

She drops to the ground and tries to catch up, but then Fenris is next to her, leaning in, his voice low in her ear.

"Razikale isn't the first old god we tried to find," he says, "First, it was Lusacan."

The old god of night, she thinks, and that is why the wardens are dead. It killed them and now Razikale is going to kill them too. 

"But when we found the prison, Lusacan was already dead," he continues, "And of course, a number of the Dread Wolf's forces were waiting. We killed them, but not before they---we were unprepared. The Grey Wardens paid the price. "

"They knew you'd be there? How?"

"I doubt it. They looked like they had been there some time," he says, "Probably left to guard the ruin. We were...unlucky." 

"The Dread Wolf was there first then. He killed the old god," she says. She feels more rage---more rage that doesn't belong to her.

_Murderer, murderer_ , the voice is louder. It is a screech.

This is even worse than she thought. If he killed one old god, what would have stopped him from killing Razikale as well? They could be walking into another disaster, a different disaster than the one she expected. 

She doesn't know what to think of Falon'Din's rage at Solas for the death. What does an elvhen god care if an old Tevinter god is slain? If anything, shouldn't it be indifferent? Or pleased?

She doesn't understand. 

But she wants to. She wants to know.

A new possibility jumps at her. Lusacan, the god of night, she thinks, and she rolls it over in her mind. Falon'Din, the god of death and fortune---Falon'Din, who had no fear of the night. 

They are one and the same. 

It can't be true. But she feels the flutter of Falon'Din's approval. 

_Yes, da'len, yes._

"I think," she says, and her mouth has gone dry. Fenris looks at her, a question in his eyes. No one else is listening. Merrill is too far ahead with Mahariel and Zevran. And Sera is still keeping her distance.

But she has to say it. Even if Falon'Din has manipulated her into believing a lie, she has to say it.

"I think," she starts again, "Lusacan was Falon'Din. Solas didn't kill the old god, he took his power. He took part of his soul." Somehow, it's the truth. Somehow. 

"I've heard worse theories," Fenris says, and then he calls to Mahariel, and she is not listening.

What about Razikale? There is no goddess of mystery in the Elvhen pantheon. There is only Dirthamen, the god of secrets and knowledge. And what about Sylaise? Was she one of the Tevinter old gods? Were they all?

How?

The prison looms in the distance, barely visible in the dark.

Falon'Din is laughing at her. 

 

Fenris forces open the door, the hinges groaning. The dark is quiet and still and the air tastes like dust. 

Solas' soldiers do not appear. 

No one appears. 

Lavellan summons a wisp and sends it chasing the shadows along the far wall. Merrill and Velanna follow her lead and send more. Soon the room is almost bright.

"Shouldn't there be guards or traps or something?" Sera asks.

Mahariel draws his swords. Both blades glow with enchantments, but the one in his right hand is made with an unfamiliar metal. It glows with a soft, blue light.

"At least an Or Something," he says, "And spirit guards. This is too quiet. Keep close and watch for traps."

Zevran puts out his arm to stop him.

"This is not your area, my friend," he says, "Sera?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." 

There are three triggers---rigged floor tiles. unavoidable and tricky to disarm. The first takes ten minutes and by the end Zevran and Sera are sweating. The second takes even longer. 

"Braska!"

Zevran curses, fumbling with a very small latch. He catches it just in time. He sits back on his heels and shoots Mahariel a scowl.

"Are you very sure you wish to continue?" he asks.

"What's wrong?" Mahariel asks.

Sera snorts.

"Almost lost a finger is what," she says, "Complicated as shite. Should have nabbed Skinner. She always was better at this crap."

"Whoever designed these traps was an elegant bastard. We are going to have to stop and rest or one of us just might lose the use of a hand," Zevran says, "And I know you, my dear warden, would be particularly disappointed." Sera doesn't bother to hide her laugh---too loud and too sharp.

Lavellan does not miss the sudden flush of Mahariel's cheeks. He sits beside Fenris and pretends he's not thinking about anything but the mission.

"Take your time," he says, "If we have to camp here, we'll camp here. That's all there is to it." But he has missed the point, whether intentionally or not, and Zevran shakes his head. He hunches over the final trap and he and Sera get back to work. No one is terribly in love with this plan. She suspects he and Zevran have argued about it behind closed doors. 

She tries to stay still but she doesn't enjoy watching while other people do everything. She knows nothing about traps. She would be a hindrance, something Zevran and Sera can't afford, but the ache to do something is there anyway. She sits with Velanna and Merrill and listens while they argue about Solas' spell.

"You do remember what happened the last time you trusted the Dread Wolf," Velanna says, when she looks at her, "I don't understand why we're even considering this."

"If he wanted to hurt her, I think he would have by now," Merrill says, "It looks harmless. I think it'll work." She is surprised Sera hasn't told them. She would have thought it would have come out by now. But Solas did hurt her. He could do it again. Easily. 

Velanna puffs out a breath. A hair has worked it's way loose from her rather severe bun and it is troubling her nose. She tries to smooth it out of the way but it snaps right back.

"In case either of you were wondering, I think we should do whatever it takes to get this thing out of my head," Lavellan says, "Because it's starting to talk in complete sentences. That can't be a good sign."

But right now, she hears nothing from it. Falon'Din has pulled itself down, tucked itself into a tiny ball in a corner of her mind. The only thing she senses from it is impatience. She doesn't even feel the usual uncontrolled rage.

"Alright, for arguments sake," Velanna says, "If we did decide to do this highly questionable spell, what would we use? We need an object to contain it. We can't just dump it into the air and hope it stays put."

"Maybe a staff?" Merrill asks, "Or a ring? A necklace?"

"I don't think a ring would work," Velanna says, "A staff might, but do we really want the god of death trapped in a weapon? I can think of three dozen separate ways this can end badly." She has a point. 

"A staff is better than armor," Lavellan says, "I wouldn't trust it not to corrupt anyone who forgot and put it on." As if anyone could forget. 

But what's to stop the spell from stripping all her power? What if Solas was lying? It is not outside the realm of possibilities. He could take everything.

They can't afford to trust him.

"I don't like this at all," Velanna says. She rubs her temples and she doesn't look like she has slept much in the last few days. 

"Well neither do I," Merrill says, "Do you think I want to cast any spell the Dread Wolf just gives us?"

"You're like a kitten, Merrill, even when you know something is dangerous, you want to play with it," Velanna says, "I think your curiosity overrides your common sense at every opportunity."

"I'm not like that at all," Merrill says. She sounds hurt. She looks hurt. It catches Mahariel's attention.

"It's not a bad thing," he says, "It's part of your charm." He tries to smile, but he isn't very convincing. 

"I am NOT like that," Merrill insists.

"You are," Fenris says, "Blood magic. Eluvian. Pride Demon---" He doesn't even look at her. He is watching Zevran and Sera, ready to move if the trap springs.

Merrill huffs. She plays with the cuff of her sleeve, twists and pulls the fabric until it looks like it might tear. Lavellan can't blame her for being upset. She would feel picked on too and in a place like this---it is horrible. 

"Alright then, you've made your point," Merrill says, "But you didn't have to be so mean about it. I'm doing my best." And she looks miserable. 

"Yes, stop picking on Merrill," Lavellan says, "How are we supposed to hash this out if it devolves into insults?"

Velanna sighs. Her lips purse and she looks uncomfortable. She looks like someone has just told her she needs to stick her bare hand in a bucket of shit.

"Fine. Yes. I'm...sorry," she says, "You have more sense than I implied. I shouldn't snap at you."

That apology wouldn't have appeased Lavellan, not spoken in Velanna's rather clipped tone, but it seems to appease Merrill. There is a flicker of a smile on her face.

"Thank you," she says, "Maybe I'm not as careful as I should be. You're right---we're both right."

Mahariel makes a happy sound and leans his head back against the wall. He shuts his eyes. She wonders when he last slept. He is usually the first awake and the last to turn in for the night. He is pushing himself too hard. 

They are going to have to have a talk. 

Zevran curses again.


	54. The Last Grain of Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is never what she expects.

She expects to see a corpse. She expects Solas to have already been here and taken the power he wanted. 

But they don't find a corpse behind open doors. They find doors that are tightly sealed and a lock that is not easily broken. They find a living, breathing woman on the other side of it. A woman who stirs and wakes and looks at them as if they crawled out of sewer. 

Razikale is ancient. 

Her skin is pale and her hair is silver and she is withering even as she speaks. She is not an elf. She doesn't look like one of the elvhen pantheon. She looks like a very old, very human woman.

She says something in Tevene but none of the words sound familiar.

Fenris responds, but haltingly---as if he doesn't quite understand what she's saying. When she speaks a second time, she says something else. Fenris tenses, and steps back. He holds his sword steady.

"What did she say?" Mahariel asks.

"She just asked to eat my tongue," Fenris says.

"Could tongue mean language?" Velanna asks after a tense moment has passed.

"It could but do you really want to get close enough to find out?" he asks.

Razikale's voice deepens. She waves her hand and a puff of orange light rushes out of Fenris and into her. It doesn't seem to hurt him and he doesn't attack, but he looks very much like he wants to. If Razikale wasn't a mythical, ancient god, she doesn't doubt he would have.

"Now we may speak," Razikale says. A spell like that would have been useful, Lavellan thinks, she could have been listening in to Solas and Abelas this entire time. 

"You're not going to attack us?" Fenris asks. He sounds doubtful, suspicious---angry. He is already so wary of magic, being hit with a spell, any spell, especially one cast by an ancient Tevinter god, would have taxed his limits.

"You're not the one who put me here, so why should I?" Razikale asks, "Are you going to attack me?" And now, she looks amused. She looks as if she has just been confronted with very small children playing dress up instead of grime covered intruders with swords. Lavellan would be lying if she said that didn't unnerve her.

"Not if we don't have to," Mahariel says, "If you're Razikale, we need your help. Are you Razikale?" And she nods.

"I suppose I am," she says, "What do you want with me---" but her voice breaks off and she looks at her hands. Her skin has darkened. She is starting to turn grey.

Her breath hitches.

"Ah, but there is not enough time left," she says,"This body has reached it's limit." Limit for what? What is happening to her? The Sight shows her orange threads---pulling, separating from her mortal form. She doesn't understand. Razikale is a god. God's don't die like this. They don't die of old age. Razikale is mortal somehow. She is human.

"We need your help," Mahariel says, because he doesn't care. All that matters is the mission, "To fight the Dread Wolf." 

She doesn't answer, but her face twists in disgust. She stares at Mahariel. Lavellan thinks she feels a pulse of magic, but she isn't sure. It is too quick. Too small.

"You are unsuitable," Razikale says, and then looks at Velanna, "And so is this one." Her skin looks almost like stone, but her eyes are clear and bright and so very sharp. Lavellan feels her gaze sweep over them, the whisper of magic again. It is almost tangible. It is almost like the touch of a hand. Searching. It feels like searching. More of the orange threads break away. The edges are dull. She is dimming.

"We thought if---wait, unsuitable for what?" Mahariel asks, hands at his swords, "The Dread Wolf destroyed the world, all we want is a little help evening the odds. You don't have to do anything. Just stand behind us and look menacing." He doesn't draw on the old god. He waits, ready. Razikale does not seem charmed by him.

"Unsuitable," she repeats and moves on. Her voice is chilly. He has been dismissed and if he can't understand that she will not hesitate to make things clearer.

Velanna's hand is on Mahariel's arm, pulling him back.

"Shut up and don't argue. Unsuitable is good," she says.

And Lavellan agrees. It feels like they're on the edge of something dangerous. One wrong step and they die. They fall. She holds her breath.

Razikale's gaze passes to Fenris and then Lavellan and each time she says the same thing. Unsuitable. When she hold's Lavellan's gaze, there is recognition. Something passes over her, not quite a touch but not the prickling of a mental invasion either. She looks like she wants to say something, but she was right. There is no time. 

She stops before she moves to Zevran. She draws a ragged breath and she is ready to collapse, holding on but barely. She passes over him as well but she hesitates as if considering. Sera doesn't let her get close enough, she is backed halfway across the room before she even looks at her.

"Don't even think about it," she says. Her voice is a hiss through gritted teeth.

When Razikale faces Merrill, she nods but she doesn't look pleased.

"This one will suffice," she says. Of course. She would choose Merrill.

"Suffice for what?" Mahariel asks, but Razikale isn't listening. She touches Merrill's chin and tilts her head back. Merrill flinches, but to her credit, she doesn't back away. She doesn't run. She looks the old god in the eye and stares.

"Do you accept?" Razikale asks.

Merrill's face wrinkles in confusion. 

"Accept what?" she asks.

"My...help. Choose quickly. There isn't much time left," Razikale says. Her skin looks harder and there are spidery cracks branching up her arms.

"Merrill, no," Fenris says.

'Quickly," Razikale says.

"I don't know. If it will help us fight the Dread Wolf, I suppose so, maybe. That's why we're here," she says, but then her eyes go wide and she realizes what she's just said, "Wait, what do you mean exactly?"

It's too late. 

Lavellan can't move, but at once, she knows what Razikale wants. She is going to use Merrill as her next host. She is going to merge with her the way Mythal merged with Flemmeth. But as this is not Mythal, she has no way to know just how much of Merrill will survive. If any.

This is wrong. She can't.

"She wants you as a host," she says, her voice rising. She hears the ripple of shock, the gasps from her companions.

"Oh for fucks sake," Sera says, "Course she does. It's always something horrible and wrong. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Stop," Mahariel says. But he's not talking to Sera. He's talking to Razikale---as if she'd listen to him. She is a god and they are all bugs.

He starts to move, but she waves her arm and he is thrust halfway across the room. Mahariel hits the wall, the sound sickeningly loud. It hurts. There's no question.

Razikale's eyes and mouth open too wide and a shimmering blue light rushes out of her and into Merrill.

Razikale collapses. She is dead.

Merrill's eyes a filled with the blue light. Just like Solas' were. Just like when he killed me, Lavellan thinks. She is shaking all of a sudden. Her hands are cold. Her chest feels tight. 

"Oh wow, this is strange," Merrill says. 

The blue light fades and she looks like herself. She sounds the same. Her demeanor is...unchanged. But Solas looked normal for so long when he was different. Merrill could be something else now. She could be something horrible. She could be bloodthirsty like the gods of old.

"Are you ok?" Lavellan asks, "What do you feel?" She is afraid to hear the answer and she hopes it is nothing like Falon'Din. She hopes Razikale is more a silent passenger than anything. If Razikale is Dirthamen, was Dirthamen, she hopes he has not misinterpreted Falon'Din's soul fragment. She hopes there won't be retribution.

Mahariel is on his feet. He is limping.

"This is my fault," he says, "I'm so sorry, Merrill." His face twists. He looks horrified. Worried. 

Ashamed.

"Why? I'm fine. This is amazing," she says, "So many colors."

She brightens. She sighs and it is a happy sigh.

"Oh, Ellana, you were right," she says, "About the Elvhen gods. Razikale was Dirthamen once. Isn't that strange? So much knowledge. I can't begin to---this is amazing. Truly amazing."

"But how do you feel?" she asks, "Are you still you?" 

"I think so," Merrill says, "But how would I know?" Her attention is drawn away. She looks at the ceiling, the floor---she stares off into space and seems to be looking at nothing at all. Then she looks at Lavellan and her eyes go round. Lavellan has an idea of what she's seeing. 

The threads of magic. The ripple of Falon'Din. She is using the Sight, and from the looks of it, she's better at it than Lavellan is.

Mahariel lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"You wouldn't know I suppose," he says, "But you still sound like yourself. I think--I'm going to hope you're fine. Just, please let us know if a strange voice starts commanding you to kill."

"This went far better than I expected," he adds, "Maybe."

And then he starts to tilt sideways, his eyes rolling back. Velanna grabs his arm and Zevran gets an arm around his waist. They hoist him back up. 

"Sorry," he says, coming back to himself and he tries to push them away, "I'm fine."

He is not fine. Zevran and Velanna get him to sit and Lavellan looks at him with the Sight. There are no strange threads of magic, but she can see the something else. Instead of threads, there are spidery veins of black, not so many he is choked with them, but enough to cause alarm.

She sees the same veins running through Velanna but she is no better or worse than he is. If this is what the Taint looks like, it is not the cause of his weakness.

He is exhausted, she realizes.

"When's the last time you slept?" Zevran asks. He demands. His voice is sharper than she has ever heard it.

"Don't fuss, I'll be fine," he says.

"You forget yourself, my friend. I know what your lies sound like and I have had quite enough," Zevran says, "You will be fine when you sleep, and do not think I won't tie you up if I have to. We are staying here and you are going to lie down and not move for at least four hours. You will sleep or I will make you sleep. Trust me when I say you will not like how I accomplish that."

Mahariel shuts his mouth,. It seems like he's going to argue, but the look from Zevran makes him back down. He glances at Velanna and Fenris and sees the same look. Disapproval. Irritation. A not so mild anger.

"This is mutiny," he says.

"This is not a boat and you are not a captain," Zevran says, "You are, however, an idiot and I've heard they can be quite similar sometimes---if the captain is drunk and on a quest to destroy himself. Though I suspect wine would improve your disposition considerably."

"And unless Merrill has decided she's evil and is going to destroy us all, go the fuck to sleep," Zevran adds.

Sera claps.

"Suck it, Mahariel," she says.


	55. What We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are preparations to be made.

Mahariel doesn't really sleep. He dozes. He wakes every time someone talks or moves or breathes. In the end, Zevran mixes a few drops of a clear liquid with a little water and stares him down until he drinks it. 

Mahariel is out cold in a matter of minutes.

Still, his sleep is far from restful.

"It is always like this when he pushes himself too hard," Zevran explains. 

Merrill has gone quiet. She doesn't hum or talk. She doesn't pester anyone with questions or stories. She sits with her eyes shut and seems to be in some kind of meditative trance. She is not so far under she doesn't stir when someone does speak to her though. 

She is herself but not herself, and Lavellan wonders how she'll look in the Fade. Will she be how Solas was and how Lavellan is now? With darkness coiling around her?

Fenris and Sera keep to themselves. They sit at the far end of the makeshift camp and watch Merrill. Velanna tries to sleep. Zevran sharpens his daggers and pretends he's not paying attention to Mahariel's twitching form.

Lavellan's stomach is growling again. When she passes by Merrill to dip into their supplies, Merrill catches her wrist. She stops her, one eye opening.

"Are you ready to get my brother out of your head?" she asks. There is a flutter of disapproval from Falon'Din but he doesn't speak. He pulls himself down, makes himself a small, tight ball, curled in on himself like a turtle in its shell.

And then Merrill laughs, "Isn't that a funny thing? He's not my brother but he is. I still can't wrap my head around it."

Lavellan sits with her legs crossed. 

"You know how to remove him?" she asks. Safely? Without stripping all her new magic? Without using Solas' questionable spell?

"It is not nearly as complicated as the Dread Wolf made it seem," Merrill says.

"So I'm starting to understand," Lavellan says.

It is not safe to trust Dirthamen or any of the Evanuris. But this is Merrill. And Merrill's influence might be enough. If she can teach her how to use Sylaise's magic, if she can teach her that damn language spell, if she can remove the soul fragment without killing her, maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright.

"What will happen to the fragment when it's removed?" Lavellan asks.

"I suppose another elven host wouldn't fare very well," Merrill says, "He is too badly damaged. It will have to be an object of some kind or merge him with the fragment of another spirit." Falon'Din is not pleased at the prospect. He bubbles hot rage inside her. He is difficult to ignore, but she tries.

She is surprised at Merrill's suggestion for several reasons. First, she expected Dirthamen to just take Falon'Din for himself. And second, she wouldn't have thought to combine him with a fragment of another spirit. It sounds like just another way for Falon'Din to take over and make things difficult for everyone around him.

It is the same thing that happened to Trouble, the archdemon fusing with the Grey Warden who killed him. And the archdemon was a corrupted old god, a host for one of the Evanuris---for Sylaise, perhaps. It was Forgewright that allowed her to unlock Sylaise's orb. It would make sense if Trouble was all that was left of her. The only thing left of her personality was her love of fire and her connection with that staff.

Maybe Falon'Din would meet the same fate. Maybe he would lose himself in that other spirit. Maybe his rage would be tempered and his memory would fade. He would stop being a force of corruption.

Lavellan only knows one shattered spirit right now and she wouldn't risk him for this. Never in a thousand years.

But Merrill is already picking up Lavellan's staff.

"This will do nicely," she says.

"Why not yours?" she asks.

Merrill arches an eyebrow, "You object?"

"No, I'm just curious." She is uneasy about potentially losing another staff. She doesn't want to make another one. She doesn't want to think about making another one. 

"He is my brother. It will be too distracting to be that close while he's like this," Merrill says, "I want to help him. What the Dread Wolf did---it must not go unpunished." That sounds like Solas when he speaks about the Evanuris and their role in Mythal's murder. He wanted vengeance too and look where that left them. 

The world is broken.

"And when we've finished with this," Merrill continues, "You'll begin your first lesson."

"Lesson?" she asks, taken aback.

Merrill nods.

"If you want to be useful, you need to learn how to access my sister's magic. That's what you want, isn't it?"

She does, and this is almost too good to be true. Dirthamen willing to share knowledge when it would be easier to just take this power for himself? It has to be Merrill. Somehow, she has to be affecting the Evanuris and that sounds insane. Something that powerful can not be changed by an ordinary Dalish woman.

Or maybe they've all been underestimating her. Just a bit.

"That is exactly what I want," she says. Because Solas couldn't be bothered to teach her, who else can she turn to?

"Very well then," Merrill says, placing the staff between them on the ground, "Brace yourself, because this is going to hurt."

It does. Oh, it does. But then Falon'Din is gone and the only voice she hears in her head is her own. She still feels Sylaise's magic and Dirthamen hasn't betrayed them yet.

 

That night, she feels lighter in the Fade. Brighter. Free. 

His hands are on both sides of her face and he is kissing her so hard their teeth clash. Her lips feel bruised by the time she remembers to push him away.

But he doesn't go far. His hands cling to her. His gaze shifts, moving to the space around her and back to her face, moving down along her form and up again. 

"You did it," he says, "I didn't think you believed---I thought you'd discount it because it came from me, but I'm glad you listened. It would have destroyed you."

He rests his forehead against hers.

"That is something I couldn't endure," he says. His voice is thick with emotion. Even in the Fade her body is traitorous. His emotion makes her throat constrict. It makes her tongue feel too heavy and dry in her mouth. It makes her eyes too hot and too wet.

When he kisses her again, she just stands there. She can't push him away.

"Where did you put it?" he asks when he pulls back, but then he adds, "Never mind, I know that is too much trust to ask of you. I'm sorry. I understand. It means everything that you trusted me enough to save yourself from that corruption."

She doesn't correct him. He doesn't need to know about Razikale or Dirthamen and Merrill. He doesn't need to know they found the Evanuris he had been seeking. They beat him at his own game for once. They turned things around and he has no idea. She did not trust his spell. She didn't---doesn't trust him.

When he brushes the wetness from her cheeks, she realizes she's crying. 

"I won't ask you to come back to me," he says, "Now that I've had time to think, I---I know. I hurt you. If you decided to never see me again, it would still be better than I deserve."

And it is like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over her. A thousand warnings are screaming in her head. He sounds almost reasonable and every time he sounds reasonable it is a lie. 

"What brought about this change of heart?" she asks. She steps back and he drops his hands to his sides. He holds still. He doesn't follow. He doesn't crowd her.

"I was---you were right about Falon'Din's influence. It had clouded my thoughts more than I realized," he says, "Once it was gone, I started to see things differently. Not immediately, no, but over the last few days, I feel like my mind has cleared."

But she knows better now. She doesn't believe him. She doesn't trust that this is genuine. 

"Is your mind clear enough you're willing to pull your troops back?" she asks, "Return to your new kingdom?" As if Mahariel would be willing to stop at this point, after the loss of the Wardens. It is getting harder and harder to see the light at the end.

When Solas hesitates it is enough to confirm her suspicions.

"I will not retreat," he says, "These lands belonged to the People and so they will again."

"And what about my people? Where are we supposed to go when you take everything back for the assholes who abandoned us to Tevinter? You prefer cowards who chose to sleep over the descendants of the ones who had to stay and fight." And there is something inherently wrong with that. How are they better? How? They slept while Tevinter enslaved them and the Chantry marched on them. They slept while her people cried out to false gods, while they bled and starved and died. 

"Vhenan--" She relishes the rush of rage. It reminds her not to look at him. Not to listen.

"No, I'm right. We were left to struggle in the mess you created while you saved a select few. Now, history repeats itself. You created a new mess and are leaving us to struggle again."

"I am not leaving you to---"

"Then what are you doing? Are you're going to rule us as a fair and just king?" she asks, laughing, "You forget I've heard that one before. If you continue this way, you're no better than the humans who chased us from our homes and enslaved us. Is that what you want to be?"

"I want peace," he says and she can read his confusion as he watches this spiral out of his control. he has underestimated the depth of her rage. Again. 

"There is only peace in death, Solas," she says, "And that is what you will have when this is over. That is all you will have."

"I could say the same to you," he says, "What do you hope to accomplish? Fighting me. Fighting the People. You are outnumbered. In the end, you will fail. And who will be left? Is that what you want? Do you want to watch your people die for foolish pride?"

She would laugh at his choice of words but she can't. She is too angry to see the humor. 

"What other choice is there? Submit or fight," she says, "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan and never again shall we submit."

And then she adds, "But the Oath of the Dales is incomplete. It isn't just the Dalish. It is all of us, city elf, circle mage, and Dalish. We are the best of Elvhenan and your People are the worst. They are slavers and conquerors. That is why we won't give in. We won't just roll over and let you tell us how to live."

"I don't want to tell you how to live. That's not what I'm trying to do," he says. And now he's frustrated. He's angry.

"That's what you're doing," she says. 

"Why? Because I won't sit back and watch while you destroy yourself with dangerous magic?" he snaps, his hands clenched at his sides, "And allow me to correct one of your false assumptions. My People are not the slavers. They are not the conquerors. They were the oppressed. They were slaves who fought and won their freedom. They are not the worst of Elvhenan, my love. You can't even begin to imagine the worst."

She stares back, unwavering.

"Can't I?" she asks.

"Don't, Ellana," he says. He shakes his head, his eyes dark. 

"A powerful mage who woke from centuries of slumber decided what the world had become wasn't good enough for him," she says, "And so he destroyed it, with no care for the people already living in that world. He destroyed entire races of people. He wiped out cities. He ignored the cries of the men and women and children who were suffering because of his actions. He cared for nothing but the glory of his very small, very select group of People. There was no room in his world for anyone else. Not even the woman he claimed to love. Does that sound familiar?"

He moves back, away. He shakes his head and he is crumbling.

You killed me, she thinks, you killed everyone. She almost wishes he could read her thoughts again, because she is flooded with grief and anger and hopelessness.

They will only ever hurt each other.

"The next time you try to kill me," she says, and her voice breaks, "Pray I stay dead, love. Pray."

 

She is jolted awake by a hand on her shoulder. Fenris pulls back as soon as he realizes she's staring at him---as though afraid he's going to be burned. He looks uncomfortable. She catches a glimpse of Sera behind him, looking away as she ducks out of sight.

"You were crying," he says, and his voice is rough, strange, "We're ready to go." Her face is wet. She scrubs it away with the back of her hand.

Mahariel looks about ten years younger and Zevran seems less inclined to murder him. Merrill and Velanna are having another heated, not so quiet argument. And they are all getting their things in order for the journey. Lavellan hadn't meant to sleep for more than a few minutes, but it is clear she slept for much longer.

"Thank you, Fenris," she says. Her staff is still beside her. No one else has been willing to come near it besides Merrill. And that is for the best. 

"What did he want this time?" he asks. He stares intently at the supply bag he's checking. He pretends to count their dry rations but he's not really paying much attention to what he's doing. He counts the same bag of jerky three times.

"The same thing he always wants," she says, "Surrender. Peace on his terms."

"Forgiveness," she adds, because she knows deep down he does. And that is the worst part. He can't have what he wants, and she can't give it, no matter how much she wants to.

"Forgiveness!" Fenris' laughter is too loud. It is harsh and bitter and ugly, "He can't be serious."

She only shrugs. This is not a conversation she wants to have. She doesn't want to consider Solas' state of mind or his motives. She doesn't want to remind herself of the lonely man under the cold facade.

"Has Mahariel decided what he wants to do next?" she asks. 

Fenris makes a rude noise. He is not fooled. He sees what she's doing but he doesn't press the issue. She is surprised he doesn't.

"That thing in Merrill's head has given him ideas," he says.

"Oh. Such as?" She catches Sera sneaking glances at her again, but when she nods at her, waves for her to come over, she looks away. She is still upset about Lavellan's death and Solas and trying to pretend otherwise. But she is even worse at pretending than Lavellan.

"It knows where another orb might be," Fenris says, and she is snapped back out of her thoughts.

Another orb. Of course. If Solas hasn't found it already. If it is unbroken. If it is reachable. If. If. If. Nothing is ever certain.

She is so very tired. 

"Which one? Where are we going?" she asks. And is it close? Please, let it be close. She does not relish the thought of spending more days on the road. The endless traveling is taking its toll.

He lets out a long breath before answering, and it is very clear he is not pleased.

"Elgar'nan," he says, "We're going to Tevinter."


	56. The Past Finds Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera is not pleased and neither is Fenris.

Sera pokes her a little too hard in the ribs when its her turn to make dinner. She bites down to keep from making an embarrassing sound. She looks at Sera like she's lost her mind.

"What are you doing?" Sera asks.

"Nug stew. I know. It's disgusting," she says. But Sera should already know. She caught and butchered the damn thing. 

She puts the stew pot over the fire. There isn't much in the way of seasonings, just a little salt and a few deep mushrooms. If they had just a little sage, some basil, and an onion it might not be so terrible, but as it stands, it is going to be bland and bordering on tasteless.

She would much rather dip into the dry rations, but they have to be careful.

Sera glares at her.

"That's not what I mean and you know it. What is this shite?" she asks.

"I don't follow."

"You're supposed to be the Inquisitor. Why are you just standing there? Tell him to get bent," she says.

No.

Just. No.

"Why?" she asks. But she knows why. And Sera knows she knows. Tevinter. Elgar'nan. All of it.

"Don't start," Sera says, "I didn't bust you out so you could go soft on me."

"You didn't bust me out," she says, "I did that myself. Well, Cole helped---"

"Oh yeah, blah de dah, high and mighty blah," she says, "Got your arse to Kirkwall. You're welcome very much. Asked for nothing in return. Now get off it and put your foot down. I can't do it. He laughs and tries to pat me on the head. Don't want to have to put arrows in his face, but I will if I have to."

She doesn't believe that. He does NOT pat her on the head. He still has both his hands and she knows what Sera would have done with at least one of them if he had dared. 

"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. No one's putting arrows in anyone. Calm down," she says and she almost drops the ladle in the fire. There is an edge of Sera's voice she doesn't quite recognize. It's tinged with panic.

Sera huffs.

"Then get over yourself already and tell him we're not going after any more elfy shite. We have you and Merramen, Dirthill, Merrill plus one---whatever she is now with that thing in her head. Don't need Elgar'butt. You know they're going to want to use it and that's bad. Real bad."

Fenris is not even pretending he isn't listening. He looks at her and holds her gaze. In the end, Lavellan is the one to look away.

He agrees. With Sera.

"Let me get this straight," Lavellan says, "You want me to tell the Hero of Fereldan to shove his plan up his ass."

"Better than I would have put it, but yeah," she says, "Get to it."

"The Hero of Fereldan," she repeats. There are many ways that makes no sense. Many. Many. Many ways. 

It's almost cute how Sera thinks she can talk him down, a man at least ten years her senior, possibly more. A man who killed an archdemon and stopped a Blight with only a few hundred allies. He brokered peace and put a new king on the Fereldan throne without the help of a Josephine. And he was as Dalish as anyone could get.

"I figure Hearld trumps Hero," Sera says, "Don't want to die, do you?"

Herald does NOT trump Hero. And besides that, she wasn't really the herald of anything. It was all a mistake. She was just unlucky and too eager to be helpful for her own good. She picked up a damn glowing orb in the middle of what was clearly a ritual of human sacrifice.

Instead of running the fuck out of there. For that alone, no one should listen to her. Ever.

But she does not want to go to Tevinter.

But she also does not want to risk losing the orb to Solas.

There is no way to win this.

"What do you expect me to say?" she asks, "You know him better than I do."

Fenris is still staring at them---at her. Sera shrugs.

"Not really my thing, you know?" she says, "You're the Inquisitor. Inquisit or whatever."

She pinches the bridge of her nose and tries to stop the coming headache. She is not the Inquisitor. Not now. The Inquisition burned with the Veil. She is just a foolish woman fighting a battle she has already lost.

And Solas is right. They have no army. They have lost.

"Ask Zevran," Fenris says, and he is suddenly right next to her, "He knows him better than any of us. If there's a way to talk him out of this, he'll know." He moves too suddenly. She doesn't see him until after and she is barely able to stifle the pathetic yelp of surprise that almost comes out. 

"Then why aren't you asking Zevran?" she asks, too sharp. She can't see him, but she knows he and Velanna are somewhere in the tunnels ahead---scouting the path, making sure they're alone.

"We're biased," Fenris says, "And easily dismissed." He pitches his voice low---unlike Sera. He angles his body toward her and tries to keep the conversation from carrying to where Mahariel and Merrill are refining their plans.

"You're friends," she says. She sets the ladle aside and replaces the cover over the pot. Dirthamen or Merrill probably already knows what they're talking about, and if Merrill isn't the one in control, it means they have bigger problems than persuading Mahariel to change his mind.

"All the more reason," Fenris continues, "It will mean more coming from an outsider."

"Right, what he said," Sera says. No, Lavellan thinks, if he won't listen to you, he certainly won't listen to me. 

Fenris catches her arm when she turns away. His hand is rough, calloused, and scarred. She stares at it---her usual reaction to people grabbing her would not be wise. He has just stopped being so skittish, if she sets him on fire---it would ruin everything. 

He does not let go.

"You're the only one at Mahariel's level," he says, and he sounds like he's pleading with her, "You had armies at your command and so did he. You know what he's been through."

She does not. He is a Grey Warden. She was just a figure head for the Chantry. She had resources at her disposal. She didn't have to walk across the country, begging for scraps. 

Still she does not trust Dirthamen with Elgar'nan's orb. She does not. And it is worth it to at least strike up a conversation. Her shoulders slump and she knows her common sense has failed again. 

He squeezes her arm and then, finally, he lets go. She can not get used to this side of him. She liked it so much better when he openly loathed her. The change in him is unsettling.

"Thank you," he says and he attempts to smile. The corners of his mouth sort of twitch upwards.

And what is she supposed to say?

"Oh gods, I hate you both," Lavellan says. She does. She really does. 

 

Merrill teaches her the language spell while they wait for the bland stew to cook. And it is difficult to focus because she is still thinking about what to say to Zevran. And when. And how.

There is little privacy here.

She keeps catching Sera and Fenris watching her. 

Once Merrill is satisfied with her mastery of the spell, she lets her use it on her. She gifts her with with Elvhen and Ancient Tevinter and a few dead languages as well. It feels strange. Her mind seems to buzz as she waits for the knowledge to settle.

Unlocking Sylaise's magic is much more complicated. After nearly an hour, Merrill sighs and sits back on her heels. 

"Whatever it is, you need to put it aside," she says.

"What?"

"You know what---the thing in you mind, whatever it is that's keeping you from focusing," she says, "It's a distraction."

Obviously. And there is no way to put it aside. It is there, nagging at her. 

"We need to discuss the orb," she says, "I'm not comfortable not knowing what our plans are."

Merrill seems unsurprised. She nods as though she expected this.

"Very well, ask your questions," she says and she sounds less like herself and more like Razikale---Dirthamen.

"What happens to the orb if we find it?"

"When we find it one of you will take the magic," Merrill says, "I will teach whoever is chosen."

"One of them," Lavellan corrects, because she can not stomach the thought of taking more than she already has. She thinks of Solas and it knots up her stomach. 

It was bad enough when she had Falon'Din rattling around in her head. She won't risk losing control.

"I'm surprised you don't want it for yourself," Lavellan continues, testing her. But she senses nothing unusual. Merrill doesn't react at all. 

"I have everything I need," she says, "Elgar'nan's power would only complicate things." And it feels like a lie. She doesn't know why, she can't say, but she knows that much. And Merrill doesn't lie---she's hopelessly honest.

This is confusing.

Strange.

"I'm glad to hear that," she says, "I would hate to think what could have happened if your goals were similar to the Dread Wolf's."

"Yes, that would have been unfortunate," Merrill says, "For both of us." And she doesn't hide her amusement. She knows what Lavellan is getting at. Worse, she thinks it funny.

Lavellan does not feel the least bit comforted. 

She is not surprised the mastery of Sylaise's magic eludes her.

 

Zevran laughs at her when she finds a moment to steal him away.

"My dear, Inquisitor, I had no idea. This is all so sudden," he says, fluttering his eyelashes. He is horrible.

"Shut up, you," she says, "That's not what this is. I'm not---you're not---"

"You are a lovely shade of scarlet, my dear," he says.

And she is going to kill Fenris. And Sera. But mostly Fenris, because this is his idea. He is the one who finally intervened, pulling Mahariel to the side for some important, mysterious talk that required complete and total privacy.

She is not interested in flirting with Zevran. After Solas, she is too tired. And he is much too friendly. 

"You're as bad as Mahariel, you know that, don't you?" she asks.

His face lights up. 

"Oh but I am worse, so much worse,' he says, "Who do you think taught him to be so delightfully horrible?" He winks and she wants to forget the whole thing. Fenris owes her for this and Sera owes her. And some how Mahariel owes her too.

"This is about Mahariel's plan," she says.

And his face falls. He sort of leans against the tunnel wall and makes a very tired sound.

"I'm going to stop you right there, my friend," he says, "I have already tried and failed and threatened and resorted to shameless bribery. He remains unswayed."

"There must be something we can say to change his mind---"

Zevran silences her with a Look.

"You're more than welcome to try, if you think you can do better, but I assure you, he is far more stubborn than he looks," he says. And Mahariel does look stubborn. He has the look of a person who makes up their mind and does what they believe whether anyone else is with them or not. 

He would have to be to have done half the things he has done. 

"If you think of anything, please tell me," she says.

"Of course, Inquisitor," he says.

But they both know this is a dead end. The only other person who knows him as well as Zevran is Merrill, and since tracking Elgar'nan's orb was her plan, there is no hope she will offer suggestions. 

They will have to try something else.

But nothing comes to her before they reach the surface. She sees the sun in the sky and it feels like she has spent a life time under ground. 

 

The dragon finds them that evening. It lands. It shifts, the draconic form shrinking until it is human sized and Morrigan shaped. She waits for Velanna to stop shouting before she speaks.

"You are still alive," she says, "Tis good. I thought by now, surely, the Dread Wolf would have caught up with you."

"You're not going to eat us now, are you?" Mahariel asks.

She makes a face.

"I am in control. The Dread Wolf has lost his hold," and then her gaze shifts to Lavellan, "Thanks in part to the Inquisitor. Did she not tell you?"

"It may have slipped my mind," Lavellan says, "You left me behind." And she is still bitter. It was almost a complete disaster. If she'd been a little less lucky, she'd be dead right now and Solas would be one God stronger.

"Clearly, you didn't need my help to escape," she says.

"Explain," Velanna says, "You attacked us. You killed our people---"

"Not of my own free will," Morrigan says, "Solas had found a way to control me through the Vir Abelasan. That way is closed to him now. He will not control me again."

And Mahariel is grinning like an idiot. He hugs her and she tolerates it. Her expression is one of extreme discomfort and embarrassment. When she finally pushes him away, he is practically humming.

"And you're sure, you're absolutely sure you're free of him?" Velanna asks. She doesn't mask her suspicion. 

"She's telling the truth," Merrill says. Her head tilts just a fraction and her pupils are dilated. She leans on her staff and waits for Morrigan to acknowledge her.

When she finally does, it is with a hiss of surprise.

"Interesting," Morrigan says, "What are you?"

"That's Merrill," Mahariel says, "I told you about her---"

Morrigan waves him away.

"That is more than Merrill," she says, "You are...of course. You are like Mother." Her voice falls. She leans back, her eyes suddenly dark. 

"I suppose I am," Merrill says, not bothering to ask just who Mother is, "I see she's been busy over the centuries---Sister." How had Lavellan forgotten? Morrigan is Flemmeth's daughter and Flemmeth was Mythal, essentially. 

Suddenly, she wants to interrupt this meeting and send one of them to the back of the group and the other to the front. 

"Which one are you?" Morrigan asks.

"Dirthamen," Merrill says and her voice is cheerful again. Too cheerful. Her smile is too wide. 

Morrigan groans.

"Wonderful," she says, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Another one of your foolish plans, Mahariel? I was wrong to think you would have learned from the last one."

He shrugs, "You shouldn't meddle with perfection." And now everyone is groaning.

But Morrigan is free and they have another ally. That is the best possible news, isn't it? No, she decides. Things are going too well. It's only a matter of time before the other shoe drops. Solas probably has the entire Tevinter border warded. Or Morrigan really isn't free of his control and she's going to pop them all like ticks the moment they let their guard down.

Or Dirthamen is going to stick Falon'Din in her head and then they'll have to fight three Elvhen gods instead of just one.

She misses the way it was when the worst of her problems was Corypheus. She misses having to worry about Orlesian politics when she'd rather sit in the library with Dorian and read. She misses Josephine dragging her into the kitchen for one of her horrible, impossible etiquette lessons. She misses laying awake beside Solas and trying so hard not to let him know the anchor was killing her and the pain was bad enough she couldn't breathe right. 

Those were easy fears. They were manageable. 

Elvhen gods are just too much. 

"How did you know to find us here?" Lavellan asks.

"Compassion sent me," Morrigan says, "Tis a sad thing to see him so changed. I was surprised he was able to approach me at all."

"Compassion?" Mahariel asks.

"She means Cole," Lavellan says.

"She means Creepy," Sera corrects, but she doesn't sound as disgusted as she used to. She sounds less afraid and more...sad? It is hard to tell. There is not edge to her voice. No steel.

"Where is Cole? Is he ok?" Lavellan asks. And how did he even know where they were? 

Morrigan just looks at her.

"He is fractured, Inquisitor, he is not ok. He will never be ok again," she says, "But I suppose, he seemed well enough. At the very least, he is better than the other spirits of compassion I have encountered."

He helped Morrigan find them just as he helped Lavellan. That's more than a fluke. He _is_ better. There is hope. She lets out the breath she has been holding.

And then Mahariel is interrupting again, pulling Morrigan back into another hug. He kisses her cheek and she pretends she is horrified. But she can't hide the faint smile tugging at her lips.


	57. Only the Dead Remain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are slowly breaking.

Sera drags a reluctant Velanna into the forest in an attempt to catch something for dinner that isn't nug. Mahariel and Morrigan and Zevran catch up---also somewhat reluctantly. Lavellan feels like an outsider again. 

Foolish, she knows, but still. 

Merrill doesn't stir. She has retreated into her mind again, for what reason, Lavellan can't even begin to guess. She is too mysterious these days. 

She can't shake the feeling she's going to have to try to pull Dirthamen out of her and how would she do that? She doubts she can recreate the spell Merrill used to extract Falon'Din and if she does manage it she doubts it will work on a soul that isn't fractured.

She is going to try to unlock Sylaise's magic again, but Fenris sits beside her. He shifts awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable spot, but the ground is hard and uneven. It is difficult.

She catches herself looking sideways at him even though she's trying to keep her eyes on Merrill, just beyond the campfire. 

"If we can't change his mind," he says, "Sera and I are leaving. We'd like you to come with us."

"I won't go back to Tevinter," he adds.

She is surprised. Again.

"You'd want my help?" she asks.

"It would be wiser to travel in greater numbers," he says. He stares at the dirt and he shuts his mouth so tightly, his lips are pressed thin. She doesn't know why he is so uncomfortable, _he is right_. Of course he is.

But she doesn't know what to say. 

It feels like giving up, running away. She isn't sure they can afford to do that. She was the Inquisitor and her failure destroyed the world. She owes it to everyone to try to put things back together again. She believes this. But the thought of saying goodbye is somehow less appealing. No, it is terrifying. They will leave and they will never come back because something will happen to them. Just like everyone else, they will die.

If Sera leaves, she can't say she won't follow.

And she doesn't want to see Fenris leave either. 

"Where would you go?" she asks. Now that Kirkwall is gone and Hunter Fell is unsafe.

He draws a line in the dirt. stares at it, and then scuffs it out with his foot. 

"We'll meet up with the Red Jennies," he says, "Then we can decide what must be done." Or rather, what can be done with so few people. The thought that Solas has already won, the thought that the people who died will have no justice, that she can't save her people---it is too much.

"Maybe," she says, "Let me think about it." But she knows she is going to say yes. She will help them find another way to fight Solas.

"Don't think too long," he says, and his voice is pitched just low enough for her to here. 

She shivers. 

 

Sera and Velanna return with only a few scrawny birds, but they don't have a chance to speak. They set them by the fire for Mahariel to clean---it is his turn, this time. But he is not interested in dinner and Morrigan is not interested in listening to any more of his stories.

It is calm and then it isn't. 

"No, absolutely not, are you truly insane?" Morrigan asks and her voice is sharp. 

He is red faced and flustered. Zevran sighs. It is clear he has seen this before and already knows how it ends. 

"What else would you have us do? We can't all turn into dragons," he says.

"And we are fortunate for that," Morrigan says, "You can not go hunting for Elgar'nan's power. Tis foolish, even for you."

Merrill is quiet. She sits with her eyes closed, meditating again, but Lavellan doesn't doubt she's listening. 

"We have no choice," he says, "Morrigan---"

But she is in no mood to be swayed either. She rounds on him with a fury that makes him step back. His eyes are round and wide and he is too shocked to continue. 

"Incorrect again. Now that I am free of the Dread Wolf's influence, I will help you. With our combined forces we will be able to fight him---"It is when she says Dread Wolf that he snaps back to attention. 

"With what? One dragon, two rogues, a warrior, two grey wardens, the Elvhen god of mystery, and the Inquisitor? In case you haven't noticed, our forces are looking rather thin lately."

"And you defeated the archdemon with less," she says.

"The archdemon couldn't turn us to stone," he counters.

Sera elbows Lavellan in the stomach. She isn't expecting it and it isn't gentle. 

"Ow, stop."

"No, say something," she hisses, ready to elbow her a second time. She side steps, tries to avoid it, but Sera is quicker. It hurts worse this time. 

"Fine, stop," she says. But maybe they should all say something. Maybe the more voices he hears, the harder it will be to ignore them.

Morrigan looks very much like she's reconsidering the alliance. The rest of the camp is silent. They have stopped what they were doing. They are watching, holding their breath. Sera is right. 

"We can find another way to fight Solas," Lavellan says, "Morrigan isn't wrong."

Because it is ridiculous to pretend Solas won't be taken aback when he sees Merrill and realizes what they've done. It is ridiculous to pretend he won't think twice with Morrigan on their side. And if she can master Sylaise's power---with or without Dirthamen's help---they just might have enough power to ensure he stays away. They will make a corner of the world their own whether he likes it or not. Solas won't have everything. They will make sure of it.

When Mahariel's gaze shifts to her, she regrets speaking. His stare is sharp and icy. He looks through her instead of at her and he doesn't look like himself. But she steels herself. She stiffens her spine and looks back through him. He is not nearly as terrifying as Cassandra or Josephine.

"Then do enlighten me, Inquisitor, what is your plan?" he asks, "Because we couldn't fight him before when we actually had soldiers."

Soldiers that died on this quest. Soldiers that would be here if they hadn't gone looking for Lusacan, for Falon'Din.

"We have Dirthamen," she says, "And Morrigan. We have Sylaise's magic---" It is enough. He has to believe it.

"You haven't mastered Sylaise's magic so you can scratch that off our list of assets," he says, "The Dread Wolf possess the power of at least two elvhen gods---that we know of. He has soldiers who were alive when Arlathan was at the height of it's glory. We are children by comparison. Children playing at war."

"Then if we are children, we shouldn't be playing with any more dangerous magic," she says.

"I agree. This can't continue," Fenris says, and she is surprised to hear him, "You're relying on the word of a spirit who was imprisoned for centuries. She doesn't even know if the orb still exists. This could be a waste of our time." 

Mahariel's scowl deepens. He shifts his gaze from her to Fenris to Morrigan and then back again. He squares his shoulders and she knows this is going to be a difficult battle.

"This is our best chance," he says. Sera makes a rude noise but she doesn't speak. She retrieves on of the birds Mahariel is supposed to be preparing and starts plucking the feathers. She mutters under her breath, but Mahariel ignores her. 

"At getting ourselves killed? Yes, my friend, you are right," Zevran says. He has been patching a split in his armor, but he puts it aside. He sets it on his bedroll and stands. 

"You too, Zevran, really?" Mahariel asks, pained.

"I do not want to go to Tevinter," Zevran says.

"And neither do I," Velanna says. He is out numbered and out voted. Surely now. Surely he will give in. 

When Mahariel slumps, she is hit by a wave of relief so strong it make her dizzy. But that relief is short lived.

"Fine, let's say, for argument's sake---let's say this is a bad idea and we do put it aside,' he says, "Tell me. What do we do when the Dread Wolf finds Elgar'nan's orb and takes the power for himself. What do we do then?"

And there it is, Mahariel's ace. Solas would try for the orb and he would likely find it and then he'd be unstoppable. It would only be a matter of time before he started to forget he isn't really a god. It wold only be a matter of time before people stopped being people to him. 

"We find another way," she says, because that is what they do. That is what they have to do.

Mahariel shakes his head.

"Not good enough. I need real answers," he says, "What do we do? Anyone? Fenris? Zevran? Morrigan? Inquisitor? There must be something if you're all this certain. What. Do. We. Do?"

And then he steps back. His gaze sweeps the length of the camp and she does not know how to persuade him. 

"That's what I thought," he says. He sounds ancient. He starts to turn away but Morrigan grabs his arm. She holds him still.

"If you continue on this path, you will die," she says, her eyes cloud and her face twists, "Kieran---wouldn't want this."

He leans into her and he can't mask his pain. It is on his face and it is raw as he extracts himself from her grip.

"I don't care," he says. 

And that is all. Discussion closed, the end, move along. He retreats to his corner of camp and busies himself with useless, mindless tasks. She had forgotten about Kieran. She had forgotten who his father was---but she remembers now, and she remembers Morrigan saying she raised the boy alone. 

Lavellan is surprised Mahariel did know him. But he did and his death is a festering wound.

It wasn't the wardens' loss driving him to revenge, it was Kieran. 

Zevran sits beside him. He touches his cheek and Lavellan feels very much like they're all intruding. And she is not alone. Sera retreats to her corner, quiet for once as she finishes plucking the first bird, and Morrigan turns on her heel. She heeds into the forest, stops a few trees in and just sits.

Merrill is still pretending to meditate and Velanna is staring at her, a strange expression on her face. 

"That could have gone better," Fenris says, startling her again. He sits by the fire, and as Sera did, he takes the second bird, begins plucking feathers. 

But could it have gone better? She is doubtful. Maybe Mahariel can't be swayed. He has made up his mind and that is it.

Mahariel is himself again within the hour. He makes no mention of Kieran or the orb or the argument. He smiles. He teases Zevran. He laughs.

But he is not ok.

She has to do something.

 

The town smells like carrion. They know long before they reach it.

There is only one row of houses, eight buildings in all---a circle of bodies has been left outside the largest home. She counts twelve adult sized corpses and five child sized. But that isn't the worst of it. They didn't die of natural causes and they didn't die from the fall of the veil.

There are arrows still embedded in some of the bodies. Others have been bludgeoned or stabbed. This was murder.

"Bandits," Mahariel says, "What a waste."

"We won't find anything here," Lavellan says. If they were killed by bandits, the town has already been looted. Some of the doors hang open and the windows have been broken. But there is no sign of the people who did this. 

Hopefully, they are long gone, but if they aren't, she almost pities them. They would not fare well against Mahariel's group.

They stay to bury the dead. It doesn't make much sense because they are pressed for time, but how can they move on? It is likely there is no one left to remember this village or these people. No one will come. The bodies will stay where they fell, like this, until there is nothing left but bones. 

She is so tired of all this death.

No one wants to stay the night but they are too tired to move on. Even Merrill. Even with her new power and endless reserves of energy. Her eyelids droop and she is stumbling by the time they shovel the last bit of earth over the last grave.

They all sleep in the same room in the largest house. 

Just in case.


	58. Small Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are unexpected complications.

She unlocks Sylaise's magic. Finally. They are waiting for dinner to cook and Merrill is relentless. She is stern and uncompromising. She has a look in her eyes that silences any and all protests.

It is worth it because when Lavellan pushes, something gives. She feels the change, and all at once, she has done it..

She had been wrong before. Her magic wasn't just small, it was minuscule. It was a wisp of smoke instead of a spark, instead of a fire. It was nothing. What she was calling on before was a joke. 

No wonder Solas treated her like a child. She was barely grasping at the edges, but now, everything is different.

And this. Oh this.

She forgets to breathe until her chest starts to ache.

And then she sees Sera's face. She sees Fenris' face. The suspicion. The fear. They look at Merrill, and then at her, and she can almost hear their doubts. Her stomach twists. That happy feeling crashes, and no matter how hard she tries to force it back, she is left hollowed out.

Not again, she thinks. She despairs. 

But Merrill is beaming. 

"I knew you could do it," she says.

"I suppose I was wrong," Mahariel says, "We can add Sylaise's magic back to our list of assets. Excellent work."

"Yes," Morrigan says, "Remarkable," But her voice is almost dripping with sarcasm. Her gaze flits to Merrill, her lips curl down. She looks at her the way Vivienne looked at Sera.

"You're not going to stuff your head up your arse and try to destroy the world, are you?" Sera asks, "You know, elfy elf shite." The hurt deepens. As if she would destroy the world on purpose, ever. Sera should know her better by now.

"I'm not going to try to destroy the world."

"Pfft, you sure about that?" she asks, "Because Egg made that face just about always and then he up and broke everything. Don't break everything."

It shouldn't hurt this much but it does. Not just because this is Solas she's talking about, but because it should never have been like this. They never got to have that pretty cottage in the woods or the ridiculously huge collection of books or anything else that comes with a happy ending.

He broke everything. 

Zevran pats her on the back.

"And that is not the face of someone who should be celebrating," he says. He holds out a dusty bottle of what could have been wine. It smells...interesting.

She takes a drink and ignores the unpleasant after taste. It has seen better days, she suspects, or not. It is disgusting but she has not had a drink in ages. She forgot how much she liked it. 

Or needed it, as Keeper Deshanna would say in a voice that dripped with disapproval. Either way, it makes her eyes shut and her mind go blissfully blank for just a moment. 

"Better?" he asks.

No. 

"Yes," she says and tries to smile. Zevran stares at her critically and hands the bottle back.

"Once more," he says, "With feeling this time."

She takes another drink and considers just keeping the damn thing, but then he's plucking it out of her hands and she knows he guessed what she was thinking. 

"There we go, much better," he says.

But Sera is still wearing her suspicion on her face. And Fenris looks just plain angry. As if she personally offended him and his bloodline. She shifts so she doesn't have to look at either of them because she has done nothing wrong. 

She doesn't deserve their sour faces.

 

She is dozing when someone touches her arm. She blinks to clear the sleep from her eyes, pushes herself up. Fenris holds a finger to his lips and gestures for her to follow him.

It takes everything to keep quiet. She can't imagine what he could possibly want.

Zevran cracks open an eye and the face he makes is ridiculous. He smirks, but there is nothing to smirk about. He is an odd one, she thinks, and tries her best to ignore him. 

Outside it is cool and dark and the air still smells terrible. 

"Well?" he asks when she shuts the door. He folds his arms over his chest---he is too tense, too severe, too serious. He looks..angry? But that is silly because she hasn't done anything. 

"Well what?"

And then he is scowling. He is angry and it is directed at her. No. he is angry at her, for some reason. She can't even begin to guess why.

"You're going with them to Tevinter," he says.

Oh. That. And then she's annoyed because he didn't actually ask her what she was doing or wait for an answer. He decided he knew just by looking at her face. He just assumed. 

"No," she snaps, "I'm not going to Tevinter."

He bristles. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, and the edge to his voice is sharper, "All that power hasn't made you look at things...differently?" She hears his disbelief.

Of course, she thinks, this is about Merrill and Sylaise's magic. She should have guessed.

"No, should it have?" she asks and she tries not to snap this time. But it is difficult because he is looking at her like she's disgusting. It is impossible not to take that personally.

"You wouldn't be the first person to be so swayed," he says. 

She thinks he means corrupted, because what else could he mean when he makes that face? She has taken too much power and now she is broken. She is another thing they will have to fight. Not a person. Not one of them.

She was wrong when she thought he had finally come around and decided he didn't hate her. He was just playing nice. For whatever reason. And now, it is too much to even pretend.

It stings. Burns. What will it take to get them to accept her? What more can she possibly do?

"If you don't want me to join you, please tell me," she says, "I'm not a mind reader." And she would never. Even if she could. The thought alone makes her stomach lurch. 

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't mean it," he says. 

"You mean Sera put her foot down," she says. And she is reminded that Sera is wonderful. 

"What are you talking about?" 

She doesn't try to interpret his confusion. She focuses on his anger and hers and maybe talking to him at all was a mistake. Zevran is probably listening, laughing to himself. 

But it isn't funny.

"It doesn't matter," she says, "Have you talked to Sera? When do you want to leave?" She just wants to end the conversation so they can go back inside, away from the stench of the air and the fresh graves. She wants to sleep. Forget again. 

"Two days, three at the most," he says, "I'll talk to Mahariel. It needs to come from me. He won't be happy." 

"I don't care," she says, turning away. If Mahariel wants to be happy he can stop skipping towards death and destruction. But she is lying to herself because she does care. He is grieving. Not all of this is his fault.

Fenris mutters something under his breath when she reaches for the door.

"What did you say?" she asks. And suddenly, she wants it to be something awful so she can yell at him. She had been so happy to finally figure Sylaise's magic out and then he and Sera ruined it for her. With just a look. 

For Gods' sake, she isn't a monster. She isn't going to hurt them. 

And why does she even care what they think? She shouldn't. They were never going to be happy about the magic and she knew that. 

But still. She is angry. 

"I said I," he starts to yell but catches himself. He looks a little embarrassed. When he hunches his shoulders, he deflates the worst of her anger, "I don't know why we're fighting."

"Oh." 

But his face---he was---he had been...she hadn't imagined it. He had looked angry. He was angry. 

She is so confused.

"I just wanted to find out where you stand," he says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, but it seems I did---I think."

"Oh." She had tried to read his face but she guessed...wrong? 

Her cheeks are hot and she is embarrassed. It was a simple, stupid misunderstanding then. It doesn't warrant this kind of reaction. 

"No, you didn't offend me. I just---I don't know," she says, "Let's just blame it on...something. We're probably just tired." She cringes a little because she sounds painfully awkward. She shouldn't care but she does and that makes it all worse.

She should not have downed any of Zevran's mystery wine.

"I'm just going to go," she adds and she pretends she can't see him, a protest half formed on his lips. 

She can't disappear fast enough. 

 

It takes a while to fall asleep. She curls up on her side and listens. She doesn't even notice when it finally happens.

The clouds are wrong and the sky is wrong, but it is all oddly pleasant. There is a shimmer of red across the blackness and the unfamiliar stars. 

The cottage tucked between the trees is very familiar. She imagined it once. Before the world ended. She knows without seeing the inside there is mismatched furniture and books cluttering every flat surface. It is homey. It is lived in. It is perfect.

It bears a small resemblance to the house Solas built on his floating island, but it is much, much better. 

She wanders the grounds, not daring to go inside, but it is still quite a while before she feels another presence. 

"Solas," she says, turning to face him.

"Ellana," he says. His hands are clasped behind his back. He is cautious, so cautious this time.

"How are you?" he asks, tilting his head.

She doesn't know and she doesn't know how to answer him. She should be ecstatic after her breakthrough but she isn't. She should be at least a little smug but she isn't. She is sad and she doesn't know why. 

And talking with Fenris has unnerved her. 

Solas stares at her. He waits.

She can't tell him any of that anyway.

"I'm fine," she says, "You?"

"Oh, vhenan," he says, his breath coming out in a rush. 

Worry lines crease his brow and he gives her a sad smile. He sees right through her. Always. 

"Don't look at me like that," she says, "I said I'm fine."

"Something has changed," he says.

She shrugs.

"Nothing comes to mind," she says, and if he was the man he had pretended to be when they were first together, she could tell him. Everything. She could let him comfort her and she could ask for his advice. They could talk and laugh she wouldn't feel this terrible weight hanging around her neck.

She is surprised he hasn't altered the Fade yet. 

The cottage is still here. She can see the stacks of books through the window. She can see the fire in the fireplace. She can see one of Keeper Deshanna's quilts draped over the back of an ugly chair.

"This is lovely," Solas says, "Is it a place from your memories?"

"It was supposed to be," she says, "But things changed."

"Ah," he says, "I see." And he does. He knows and he looks just as sad as she feels. They could have been happy once. Here. They could have had a life together.

'You might as well come inside," she says, "See what we're missing."

She opens the door, waits for him to pass, but he doesn't. He stares at her, his eyes so full of regret.

"Don't do this," he says.

"Have you ever seen so many books crammed into such a small house?" she asks. Varric has a wall all to himself---books she loves, books he never got a chance to write. Never would.

She should not be this sad.

"What's wrong?" he asks, "What happened?"

She thinks she'll go inside without him, but he stops her. He touches her shoulder, pulls her back to face him. 

"Nothing," she says.

"Nothing?" he asks, tilting her head back. He eyes her critically, looking for all the little hurts she wants to hide. He can't help anyway and he would use them against her. She knows this. She knows better. 

But she doesn't want to know.

"Nothing," she repeats. 

Merrill is in real trouble and Mahariel is slowly losing himself. The people she cares about are going to die because the man she loved---still loves---is going to kill them. And Dirthamen was a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

"Why can't you just let everything be?" she asks.

She doesn't wait for an answer. She kisses him. It hurts and she hates that she is like this, but she is. Nothing is right and she feels so broken.

He wraps his arms around her, his hands sliding up her back, palms resting flat. She parts his lips, she pulls the breath right out of him, and for once---he is warm.

But this isn't right.

She knows. She pulls away.

"Whatever it is," he says, "Whatever is wrong, it doesn't have to be that way. I can help you. I want to."

"I don't think there's anything you can do this time," she says, and it is already more than she should tell him. Dirthamen. Merrill. Mahariel. None of this is fair or right and this time they can't blame Solas. Not really. Because they woke Dirthamen. They did it all on their own.

What are they even doing?

He cups her face, kisses her forehead and then her cheek.

"Please, vhenan, tell me," he says, "What's wrong?"

She can't tell him. She can't. She can't. She can't. But she is so worried. 

"We found something in the Deep Roads," she says, "Again."

The worry lines deepen, his eyes go dark. She hears the catch of his breath and she feels him go tense around her. He can't know about Dirthamen. No matter how much she wants to pretend he's different, that he's the man he was when he was pretending to care, she just can't. 

"What did you do, vhenan?" he asks, his voice breaking.

We woke a God, she thinks, and it's going to destroy us. But it is just a moment of weakness and it passes. 

She says, "I'm sorry, Solas. I can't." 

 

It takes a moment to banish Solas from her thoughts when she wakes, but when she does, she realizes just what's wrong and what woke her.

There is a sword point pressed to the soft of her throat. 

She feels a moment of panic and then she is ready to burn them intruder to cinders. It almost doesn't register that whoever is holding it is shaking. She opens one eye.

They are surrounded, but these are not bandits. 

Or maybe they are, of a sort. But the armor they wear is...striking. Leather---mostly chest plates and pants cut short below the knees--- worn under patched highever weave shirts, threaded with black and gold, and clearly meant for someone much larger. 

The emblem is unfamiliar but it is vaguely elvhen, like something poorly copied out of a book. It makes her think of the emerald knights.

But these are not the Emerald knights. 

Merrill is looking up at one of them, trying very hard not to laugh. 

"What in gods green earth do you think you're doing?" Mahariel asks, and then he flicks the blade away from his face. 

They are young. 

Sera eyes them once before she rolls back over and pulls her bedroll half over her head. The eldest looks at the lump she's made of herself and is bewildered. She pokes her with the tip of her sword and then scurries back when a hand snakes out to bat at the air.

"Go'way. Sleeping," she mumbles, "Stupid kids."

"You're not supposed to be here," the eldest says, and she can be no older than fourteen. But she is probably closer to twelve. 

"Put that away," Fenris says, "You're going to hurt yourself." His voice is gruff and loud.

One of the younger ones drops his sword and then his face is as red as his over shirt.

"Do you often accost weary travelers, da'len?" Velanna asks, "Put those away right now and sit down."

They are all taken aback. Lavellan feels a bit of sympathy. When Velanna uses that voice it is hard to disobey. Two of the youngest actually put their blades away and then their leader is hissing at them.

"You don't listen to her," she says, and she glares until they fumble with their swords again. 

"Nonsense. We are clearly seasoned warriors and you haven't belted your shirt properly. Sit down and share some of our food," Velanna says. She ignores their weapons and adds more wood to the fire pit. She hooks the stew pot over it.

They clearly want to. They are thin, even for elven children. And while she doesn't doubt the oldest could put up a bit of a fight, she is just as malnourished. 

Most of the children died when the Veil fell. She had not imagined there would be a group this large, living together. 

"We were only planning to stay the night," Lavellan says, "We didn't realize we were trespassing. Will you please join us?" The sword point at her throat lowers and the child holding it looks as if he wants to believe her. 

"Are you bandits?" the eldest asks.

"Do bandits take time to bury the dead?" Fenris asks. The lump that is Sera makes a sound that's startlingly close to a laugh. 

The girl narrows her eyes, watchful as he stands and stretches. He shoots her a Look and starts putting his armor on---as if they haven't all been taken captive by children. 

"They might. I don't know," she says. 

"If we were, you'd already be dead," Mahariel says, and he points to his crest, "Do you see this? It means I'm a Grey Warden. I don't think I have to explain what that means. We mean you no harm."

The eldest is still put off by Velanna's commands and in general by Fenris, but she doesn't seem terribly at ease with a sword in her hand. Reluctantly, she sheathes it, but none of them sit. 

"Well," Morrigan says, sitting up "What are you waiting for? Sit down."

And that is what does it. Their eyes go wide and they can't stop staring. The girl is shaking. They are all shaking.

"You're human," she says. She sounds surprised, as if she can't believe what she's seeing. 

"Aye, that I am," Morrigan says, "Don't tell me I am the first you've seen."

"We thought the humans were all dead," she says, "When the sky burned---" and her voice trails off. She doesn't know how to continue.

"Well, I am no ordinary human," Morrigan says, her smile tight, "My name is Morrigan. Who are you?"

"If I find out you're lying and you really are bandits, you'll be sorry," the girl says and Fenris snorts.

"I would hope so," Morrigan says.

Finally, they sit. There are six of them in all and their leader is twelve and three quarters and not foureen. Her name is Rowan and she is adamant that this is her town. Or it was. 

When the Veil fell, the humans died and the only ones left alive were her parents and her aunt. A group of refugees seeking shelter found them and stayed. And for a while it seemed like everything was going to be fine.

"And then the bandits came," she says, six of them, heavily armed. She stops when Velanna gives her a bowl of the left over stew. 

"What happened?" Lavellan asks.

"They killed our parents," she says, "So we killed them." And left their bodies with their victims, couldn't bury them. Just couldn't. 

It is said so matter of factly, it gives her chills. She is much too young to have had to think about killing and death. 

"That is quite impressive," Zevran says, "You must be quite skilled to have handled such a large group."

"Lia and Jeth froze their legs so they couldn't run," she says, "They were supposed to go to the circle to train, but then the sky burned. They came here instead." And the rest of the children finished the bandits off with their own weapons, knives and clubs and swords. The bodies riddled with arrows belonged to the towns people the bandits killed. 

They left them all together, unburied, and moved into the forest. They set up tents and only ventured in to town when they had to. 

Lia and Jeth shrink away from the attention. 

They are about ten years old, maybe a little younger, and from the resemblance, they are probably twins---at the very least related somehow. They have a similar speckling of freckles across their noses, under the dirt, and their eyes are the same shade of brown. 

"A fitting end," Zevran says, "You should be quite proud."

"We are," Rowan says, "You don't have to tell us that."

"Even better," Zevran says, "It is good to know the value of your achievements."

And Rowan stares at him as if he just started clucking like a chicken. She goes back to shoveling stew into her mouth. 

The youngest doesn't speak to grown ups. He is only seven and his name is Sarel. He is Dalish---his clan was also slaughtered by the bandits. He hid until they left and wandered the forest until he found Rowan.

"Andaran atish'an, then Sarel," Lavellan says. He stares at her and then goes back to eating.

The last two are Bastien and Marcel and they were the two most eager to put their swords aside. They are fighting back grins whenever Zevran speaks. It seems their natural state is laughter.

"You talk funny," Bastien says, and his voice is heavily accented, heavier than even Leliana's had been. Marcel is much the same because they are both refugees from the Orlesian countryside. 

"That I do," Zevran says, "It's most likely because I am so amazing. All amazing people sound like this."

The children can't come with them but they can't stay here. Not without someone, not alone. They need to be with people who can care for them. It is Mahariel who says it, and it is unexpected coming from him.

"Tevinter will have to wait," he says.

Rowan is unimpressed with that suggestion and so is Merrill. Or rather, so is Dirthamen. Because Merrill would have fallen over herself to help them. She would have been horrified at the thought of leaving them alone.

"Can we really afford the delay?" she asks.

"There's no choice," Mahariel says. 

"You're not suggesting we leave them to fend for themselves," Velanna says, horrified.

Rowan's scowl deepens.

"Don't talk about us like we're not here," she says, "We aren't going anywhere."

"You have no food, da'len," Mahariel says, "How much longer can you hold out?"

"I don't want to leave," she says.

"Then stay but the little ones can't and they will need you," he says, "They need food."

"Do you have frilly cakes?" Bastien asks, inching closer to Zevran, "I don't think I'll mind if I can have cake." He tries to look in the supply bag.

"I don't think frilly cakes would have survived in there," Zevran says, closing it, "There may be a baker or two in Hunter Fell that might remember how to make such things. I am sure if you ask nicely, they will oblige."

Hunter Fell. Lavellan feels her stomach twist. They can't go back. No doubt Solas has guards camped nearby, watching, just in case. Fenris is far too recognizable to risk it and so is she for that matter. And Sera. And Mahariel.

Merrill looks at Zevran and then at Mahariel. 

"I have an idea," she says.

"I'll just bet," Sera mutters, still buried under her bedroll. She finally peels back the corner, to glare at them. Her hair sticks out at odd angles and there is a red crease along her cheek. Her eyes are bloodshot.

Merrill ignores her.

"Morrigan can fly them to a settlement," she says, "She'll be back before we get far."

"You are joking," Morrigan says.

"You have a better plan?" Merrill asks.

And Mahariel looks too thoughtful. This neatly solves his problem. Lavellan is annoyed. Making the trip back would have bought them time to try to get through to him. This lessens their chances.

"I have never flown with children on my back," she says, "I am not sure that would be wise---"

"We can secure them and one of us can fly with you, maybe Zevran?" she suggests, "He seems to have developed a rapport---" And that sets off alarms. Sending Zevran and Morrigan away, the two people who may have the most influence over Mahariel other than Merrill---Lavellan doesn't like it. Not even a little.

Merrill has to still be in there somewhere. She can't be completely buried. Lost.

Rowan makes another angry sound.

"We're still here and we can still hear you," she says, "You're not better than us just because you're old."

"Ha! Old," Sera says, "Changed my mind. Just might like this one, she's mean."

And then Rowan shoots her a withering look. It makes Sera laugh harder. She's not even the least bit concerned that the girl and her group did actually manage to sneak up on them while they were sleeping. 

"Stop pestering her," Lavellan says, "Please, Sera." Her headache is back again. Why couldn't they have found horses instead of starving children? But then she feels bad for even thinking that. They are children. living, breathing, and defying fate. They should have died but they held on. They survived.

She should be happy.

"This is the best way," Merrill says, "Please, at least consider it."

"Tis the best way for your ridiculous plans, perhaps," Morrigan says.

"Yes, dear sister, it is," Merrill says, "Or would you rather spend the next few weeks walking very slowly back to the nearest populated village?"

It is obvious she does not, in fact, want to spend the next few weeks transporting children across the country. It is difficult to pretend Merrill's plan has no merit---she is right. As much as Lavellan hates to admit it, a quick trip on the back of a dragon is the fast way to resolve this.

And by the time Morrigan returns, only Vellana, Zevran, Mahariel, and Merrill would be there. She doesn't have a clue where she'll be. Or where the Red Jennies are. 

"What do you mean fly?" Marcel asks, "You can't fly and besides, we can't sit on your back. There are too many of us."

"Yeah, that's just crazy," Bastien says. And Lia hides a laugh behind her hand. Jeth snickers. Sarel just looks at them all, bewildered and uncertain. He moves closer to Rowan and looks very much like he wants to run away. 

It does sound pretty crazy. Flying on the back of a strange human woman. 

"Tell me, child," Morrigan says, and when she kneels in front of them, she is grinning, "Have you ever seen a dragon?"

"You are not a dragon," Rowan says.

"Not right now, no," Morrigan says, "But I can be. I can take on many forms."

Rowan is skeptical, but the others---they believe her. They all go quiet---except for Bastien, but Lavellan suspects he is never quiet. They stare at Morrigan like she's the blessed Andraste herself, come to save them.

"Prove it," Rowan says. 

And Morrigan bows her head.

"Very well," she says and she leads them outside. 

She proves it.


	59. The Star Metal Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The timing is terrible.

After Morrigan and Zevran leave with the children, she knows. They can't go just yet. 

Merrill doesn't sound like herself. She doesn't talk like herself. Her accent is different. And she spends so much time in meditation---she barely talks to anyone other than Mahariel. 

Animals are afraid of her.

The first time they see horses---tame horses---it's a herd of Imperial warmbloods. From the way the lead mare inches closer, her gaze locked on their supply bags, Lavellan thinks she's expecting to find apples or sugar cubes. She is battle scarred like the rest of her herd, probably from the war, and they are probably used to soldiers.

They stop and Mahariel approaches. There isn't much they can offer in the way of treats other than a few carrots, but it seems like it will be enough. It would be nice to ride. It would be nice to not end each day so tired and sore.

The mare comes close enough to take Mahariel's offering. 

She sees Merrill. 

She startles. She shrieks, rearing back.

She runs.

The whole herd follows. They are terrified.

Merrill shrugs, unapologetic. 

And that is only the first time it happens.

The second time, it is a pack of friendly hunting dogs. Not Mabari, but a smaller, more agile breed---low to the ground, their shaggy fur a rich, warm chestnut color. They bark a warning first but after an initial growl from the alpha, they settle back down and most ignore the party.

Several of them seem very interested though. They wag their tails and stretch and crawl on their bellies, playing just out of reach. 

Their collars are a little too tight so Mahariel bribes them with a trail jerky. He works the collars loose and then they are all the best of friends. The alpha plants his paws on Mahariel's shoulders and licks his face.

Then he sees Merrill. 

He scrambles away. He snarls. He and his pack run.

Mahariel stares at her for a long time before speaking. He is just as unsettled as the rest of them, but he keeps his questions to himself. She can tell he doesn't want to, but something keeps him quiet. This is Merrill and she is not in control. 

What happens when Dirthamen decides he's tired of her?

It is beyond horrifying.

It is Lavellan's turn to gather firewood, but Velanna and Fenris follow her. Sera disappears with her bow, leaving Mahariel behind to guard camp. Merrill sits by what will be their camp fire and slips into a trance.

They can't fight Dirthamen. Even with her power, she is nowhere near as dangerous. She knows only the few piddling spells he taught her and the one Solas gave her to use on Falon'Din. She doesn't trust it and it is the only thing she can think of that might work.

"We have to do something now," Velanna says when they are out of earshot.

"She is losing herself," Fenris says.

"I know," Lavellan says. Much of the ground is damp. Most of the twigs and sticks and leaves she finds are wet. Some of it is much too green to use in the fire. 

"Then what are you going to do about it?" Fenris snaps. Does he ever not start off like this, she wonders, doe he ever just calmly ask a question? 

This is not her fault. This was _their plan_. She distinctly remembers being left out of the loop. 

"I don't know," she says, "I'm thinking." Trying to think. Struggling because fighting Dirthamen is beyond anything they've done so far. And he will not hold back the way Solas has. He doesn't care about any of them.

"You're thinking," he says, still angry, still accusing, because she is a mage and this is somehow her fault. 

And she is not in the mood.

"Yes, I'm thinking," she says, "I've found it useful when faced with a problem. Perhaps you should try it."

He steps back, hands clenching at his sides, but she doesn't care. He can be angry and he can blame her all he wants, but she is not listening to it. 

And neither is Velanna. Apparently.

"Enough, this is not helpful," she says.

"Tell that to him," Lavellan counters. She refuses to feel bad, childish as it is.

She is going to have to use Solas' spell and it scares her. She can't even assess the risk. If he has lied, anything could happen. They could lose Merrill. They could give away their position. They could fail and lose the element of surprise, and when the god of mystery and secrets is involved, that is something they can't afford.

And Fenris is grumbling.

"Shut up," Velanna says, "Both of you."

Lavellan doesn't know why, but every single time she uses that voice, it works. She is worse than Keeper Deshanna and Cassandra combined, but it shouldn't phase her. She has fought too many terrifying things to be successfully cowed by an ordinary person.

But she is.

"We still have the Dread Wolf's spell," Velanna continues, "I think that's our best chance."

Because it is their best chance.

Right now, it's their only chance.

"I know," Lavellan says, "But I don't like it. This could end very badly." But what else can they do? Her sad little armful of sticks and twigs is not growing fast enough, and neither Velanna nor Fenris is helping.

"And if we don't try," Velanna says, "We lose Merrill."

"We can't lose Merrill. We have to do this now," Fenris says, "It's getting stronger."

She is going to vomit because they are going to fail--- _she_ is going to fail. But he is right and Velanna is right. They can't wait for Morrigan and Zevran to find them again. They have to do this now. 

But she wishes Morrigan was here. 

"Yes, fine," she says, "We'll do this."

She shoves the firewood at Fenris and tries to keep her voice steady, her breath coming in slow.

"Take care of this, please," she says, "I need to prepare."

He doesn't look happy, but he nods and Velanna gives her the closest thing she can to an encouraging smile. It is not encouraging at all though. This will be her first real attempt to use Sylaise's magic against a serious threat. 

If Dirthamen doesn't kill them, Mahariel will.

 

She waits until the moon is high and the fire burns hot and Sera has returned from her hunt. Then, Velanna catches her eye and and Fenris pretends to clean his sword for the third time. She has never seen it this polished and bright.

"We need to talk," she says while Merrill is meditating. She grips her staff too tight and her voice sounds brittle.

Merrill doesn't look at her but she wears a strange smile. She probably already knows. Everything.

"As you wish," Merrill says. The strange accent is unsettling coming from Merrill's mouth.

"I want to speak to Merrill," she says, "Not Dirthamen."

And then her eyes open and her gaze is fathomless. Ancient. Darker than anything Lavellan has ever seen. She looks into her eyes and it feels like another death.

"Merrill can hear you," she says, "You are still young in the ways of power. Consider that before you continue, da'len."

It reminds her of the way Solas' people talk to her. Pitch perfect. Down to the last condescending syllable.

"I don't believe Merrill meant for you to take control of her body," she says. And now she has Mahariel's attention. 

He gets to his feet and she sees his look of horror, of guilt. She expects him to intervene because the only thing that matters is his quest, but he doesn't. He holds back and watches and he is afraid. For Merrill, she thinks, and that is good. He is not so far gone he doesn't remember how important his friends are.

There is hope for him, then.

"Then she should have been more careful before she offered herself as host," Dirthamen says, "She is safe. She will remain safe."

"If you would prefer I take another host, I will consider it," he continues. She does not miss the implication. He means her. And that is a definite no.

She won't make that sacrifice for anyone. She is not that selfless.

"You have one chance," she says, steadying her voice, "Relinquish control to Merrill or I will be---"

"Forced to expel me?" Dirthamen asks, "You're welcome to try, but you will regret it. I promise. I am nothing like my brother."

And he is laughing at her. This is funny because she is a child. He is ancient and terrible and so much like Solas---she can't hope to succeed. 

Mahariel clutches his swords and she thinks he's going to stop her. She glances his way, but he is frozen in place, too horrified to move. She doesn't want to die today. Gods, but she is afraid.

Dirthamen stops laughing when she casts Solas' spell. 

He curses. He fights.

He lashes out with a spell that when it hits it makes her feel like it's peeling the skin off her body---he strikes harder and harder and Lavellan's vision goes red. They are not evenly matched. Dirthamen is stronger.

They both know it.

Her magic wavers. She is weakening. She is going to drop her staff---

"Hey, Stupid, look up!"

But Dirthamen doesn't and an arrow strikes the air in front of him. It hovers, caught by an invisible force, and then it splinters. Sera curses and draws again, fires again, but she can't get through.

His focus doesn't even waver. 

"Stop this at once," Dirthamen says, but he doesn't know them well enough. 

They will not stop. Not knowing what they know now. Not after what he has done to Merrill.

There is a burst of silvery blue light. It sweeps through Dirthamen's invisible shields---it doesn't sap his power as a templar's spell purge would, but it makes him stumble. He is not dazed but his spell is interrupted.

She manages a breath.

She sees Fenris, shrouded in the same silvery blue light---Dirthamen lashes out with that horrible spell again, but Fenris is dodging, too quick to be caught. 

"I said, look up!" Sera shouts again as she fires. This time the arrow gets through, but Dirthamen moves and it just misses his shoulder. So close. 

Mahariel still hasn't moved, but then it doesn't matter because Dirthamen's focus shifts back to her. She struggles to hold the spell but he hits her with that same terrible lash of magic. It is worse than before. She doesn't know how it's even possible but it is and she can't breathe.

Another arrow strikes the air, caught up again in the invisible shield. And when Fenris tries to get through the side, he's blocked. The silvery blue light doesn't so much as catch Dirthamen's attention.

Why did she think this was a good idea?

She can't remember.

"I am willing to spare your friends," he says, "We can continue on as before if you cease this foolishness. All I want is the Dread Wolf. I will return your Merrill when he is vanquished."

Lies. She tastes blood. 

"We both know you won't go quietly afterward," she says, "You have had a taste of freedom after how many years? I know I wouldn't want to go back."

His smile is chilling. She sees madness.

"Yes, well, I will require another host," he says, "The choice is yours."

Her vision blurs. She tries to hold on to the spell. She forces as much of her energy into it as she can---Dirthamen moves toward her, his fingers outstretched. 

Someone is shouting---Mahariel, she realizes. He finally moves. He surges forward, stops at the invisible shield, and then he is so bright all of a sudden she can't see him. The light flashes and Dirthamen is hit with a templar's holy smite. 

She has a moment to be glad he didn't try for a spell purge because she would not have been able to hold on.

She is in too much pain. 

The holy smite does little. It annoys him more than it hurts him, and when Mahariel rallies to try again, Dirthamen is ready for it. He channels magic into that side of his shield and the blast is absorbed. Even when Fenris joins him. Even when he hits him with that strange blast from before---it does nothing.

They aren't hurting them. Not even a little. 

She drops to her knees and she is going to die. All of this was for nothing.

But she has forgotten one thing. She has forgotten Velanna---an icy blast knocks Dirthamen forward. She sees Velanna's hands glow as she delivers a second blow. He has put too much power into defending his front and sides, he has forgotten about the mage watching him from behind. 

Ice crystallizes around his legs as he falls, but it is just a moment. He is already breaking free and stumbling to his feet. His breath is a hiss of rage as he turns.

But Velanna adds her power to Lavellan's. It is not much but it is enough. 

He screams and the blue light rushes out of Merrill. But it doesn't go into her staff or Velanna's or even Merrill's. It struggles and somehow, it latches on to Mahariel's strange sword. It burrows into the metal and it can not escape.

And Mahariel drops it, stares at it like it's a poisonous snake. He has nothing to worry about. It is safe to touch unless he decides he wants to become the next host. And after watching Merrill, she doubts he will consider it.

She drops her staff. She has never hurt this bad before---not even as she was dying. 

Thank the gods for Velanna, she thinks. If not for her. If she hadn't been inching behind him, so quietly, she would be dead. When she coughs, she covers her mouth. She feels warmth and wetness, and when she looks, her palm is red.

But Merrill is fine. 

She's unconscious and quiet but her breathing is even. She's still in there. She's still her. Lavellan can see it. 

Someone pulls her to her feet. The hand on her arm is gentle, but it is almost too much. She sways, drained and exhausted and still aching---her eyes shut. Everything hurts. Even now. 

Another hand steadies her.

She manages another breath but her mouth still tastes coppery, bitter. 

"Are you alright?"

She doesn't recognize the voice at first, but she nods. She forces herself to open her eyes, to look up, and she sees Fenris. 

"Thank you," she says, and she pulls away. She sways again and he is reaching out, catching her.

"Sit down before you pass out," he says, voice too sharp. He is scowling, glaring, and she doesn't care. 

She doesn't have the energy to be angry so she lets him steer her to the ground. The world swims in and out of focus, but then it evens out and she is going to be fine. Probably.

She doesn't understand why he's looking at her like that. Maybe that's just his face, she thinks.

Mahariel finally finds his voice.

"I don't know if I should kiss you or scream at you," he says, "Maybe both."

"You will do neither because that thing was a mistake," Velanna says, "Keep your yelling and your lips to yourself."

Merrill stirs and everyone goes quiet. She holds her head as she sits up, her eyelids fluttering. She moans and wobbles a little.

"Well what took you so long?" she asks, and then she smiles and Mahariel is burying his face in her shoulder and squeezing her much too hard. 

She laughs and then she cries and Mahariel doesn't let go. 

"I am so sorry," he says, "This is my fault."

"It was terrible," she says, "And no one said anything. You just let him---me---you all just watched. Why? Couldn't you tell that wasn't me?"

"I'm a terrible friend," Mahariel says and then he finally lets go. 

"You absolutely are," Merrill says, but she gives him a watery smile and then she's laughing. She's going to be ok, maybe. 

Lavellan lets out a long breath and lets herself curl up on her side. The world is spinning again. She is lying down but it's still tilting sideways---

 

Something flicks the tip of her nose.

Damn it, Sera, she thinks. She doesn't want to wake up just yet. She is tired and another eight hours would be beautiful. Her muscles protest but she bats at the air, her hand connecting briefly with something solid. Sera laughs.

She cracks open one eye.

'Not dying then," Sera says, grinning, "Next time warn us when you're going to go all magey on an elfy demon. I could have hit it with something fun."

"No bees," she says. She groans and tries to sit up. She feels like someone tried to scrape her skin off with a rusty cheese grater. Her insides feel bruised. Her lungs feel like they've been filled with water and then squeezed dry.

"Pfft, better than bees. Could have put shit in a bag and set it on fire," Sera says, "Hilarious."

Ugh. No. It hurts too much and burning shit isn't nearly as funny as Sera thinks it is.

'Merrill?" Lavellan asks, "Is everything---"

"Pfft. Merrill is Merrill," Sera says, "She's like a cat. Always lands on her feet. Creepy but handy."

Dirthamen is trapped in Mahariel's sword. She remembers. It is too surreal, too impossible. Solas wasn't lying about his stupid, wonderful spell, and she doesn't know what to make of that.

They did it. 

They won.

"A little warning would have been nice," Mahariel says, "Next time, if you need a vessel for the spirit of an Evanuris, please use something other than my favorite sword. Starfang helped me kill the archdemon. I'm rather attached."

"No," Fenris says, "There will be no next time. You put us all at risk." Because he did. If she's being honest though, they let him. No one stepped forward to put an end to it. They all just followed along. it was easier to let him carry the burden.

And it was too much for him. She knows now. This is too big for just one person to carry.

"Harsh, but fair," Mahariel says, after a tense moment passes, "I am sorry. I let myself get swept up in the mission. It's not an excuse---Grey Wardens are expected to do whatever it takes to win, and it was the wrong thing to do. I let you all down. "

"Well don't do it again," Fenris continues.

Merrill sort of squeaks. She fidgets. And her face is very pale.

"Please don't fight," she says, "I'm fine. Really I am. It's all behind us."

Mahariel looks impossibly sad. And Merrill tries to comfort him. _Him._ As if she hadn't spent any time possessed by a god. She is wonderful and sweet, but really. 

Just no.

She quiets when Fenris looks at her.

"And you," he says, "When an ancient god asks if you want their help, you say no. You don't invite it in to your head." 

Merrill flushes and shifts.

"I know that. I'm not stupid. She just---I mean he. He just caught me off guard. It wasn't so bad at first," she says, "Until he took over. I mean I tried, but---I don't know. It wasn't what I expected."

Fenris' response is indecipherable. He sort of grunts and sits with his back to them. He goes back to polishing the sword that doesn't need polishing. He is fooling no one. 

"I'm sorry," Merrill tries again, "I mean I did try---"

"It's not your fault so just stop," Fenris says. 

Merrill flinches.

"I'm sorry---"

"And stop apologizing," he interrupts. He twists just enough to glance in her direction and then his attention is elsewhere.

It's almost comforting to know he's that prickly with everyone. It isn't personal. But Merrill looks crushed and that makes Lavellan want to kick him.

But kicking him would require more movement. 

The veins in her head are throbbing and the smell of smoke and whatever they're cooking is making her nauseous. She shuts her eyes, hoping to nod back off, but Sera pokes her.

"Please don't touch me, I'm trying not to die," she says.

"Looks like it," Sera says, "Maybe try harder. You've gone green."

That seems far too conservative a description. She feels worse than just green. But then, Sera sets something in front of her---she hears the soft sound of it by her face so she opens her eyes again. A health potion. A beautiful, wonderful health potion.

"Gods, I love you," she says. Her hands shake but she gets it open and downs it with only a little trouble. It takes the edge off, but her headache is persistent.

Sera's grin is disturbing.

"What? Stop staring at me like that," she says. Disturbing and creepy and far too cheerful considering how angry she's been for the last few weeks.

"Fine, grumpy butt. But when you stop tilting sideways and looking cross eyed, we're celebrating," she says, and she leans in until their noses are almost touching, "Because we've got a chance now. Might not beat him, but the Dread Egg's gonna hurt. And any pain he feels is a win."

She pulls back and practically skips back to the camp fire and the disgusting smell bubbling up from the cooking pot. Clearly, she has forgotten that Solas can turn people to stone just by thinking about it. Lavellan doesn't have a spell to protect against that and the only person who did is evil and trapped in a sword. 

How can Sera be so damned optimistic? 

"Do you want something to eat?" Velanna asks. Gods bless her because unlike the others she keeps her voice low.

"No, thank you," she says, "Maybe tomorrow."

Maybe never.


	60. Desperation is Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took more out of her than she realized.

The next time she wakes up, the world is moving. She is pressed against someone's back, her cheek mushed against his shoulder. There is drool and it is embarrassing.

When she shifts, she feels like her skin is on fire. 

"Stop, she's awake," Fenris says and the world halts. Everything is too bright. And Sera is in front of them, peering at her like she sprouted a second head. 

"How do you feel?" Fenris asks, turning just enough to look at her, "Can you walk?"

She'd like to think so, but her muscles feel very loose under the pain. A strange feeling because usually pain brings tension. She should not feel boneless.

"I'm not sure," she says, "Where are we?"

When she tries to get a better look, the world starts to spin. Sharp pains shoot up her neck and behind her eyes. She hisses.

"That's a no, then," he says, "Try to relax. We still have a ways to go."

She doesn't remember much from after she drank Sera's health potion, just that she was better and then she got worse, but that is more likely a side effect of Dirthamen's spell. Whatever it was. She doubts Sera's potion was meant to sedate her.

Mahariel has Fenris' sword strapped to his back and Velanna is carrying Lavellan's staff. 

"Might be a town up ahead," Sera says, "You went sideways again."

She is still going sideways. She shuts her eyes and rests her face on his shoulder. This is worse than ten hangovers. And when Fenris starts walking again the jarring motion makes her stomach lurch. 

"Where are we?" Lavellan asks again, because it is important.

"Somewhere in Orlais," Fenris says, "Probably." His voice is a low rumble. It vibrates where her ear is pressed to his shoulder.

"Probably?"

"I know, right," Sera says, "You'd think with all this walking we'd be better at maps by now."

"I know exactly where we are, children," Mahariel says, "Have no fear." Overconfident. Too sure of himself. He has no bloody idea where they are. And if he doesn't know, how are Morrigan and Zevran supposed to find them again?

Velanna snorts.

"If we weren't worried before, we are now," she says.

"How long was I asleep?' she asks.

And then it's Sera snorting down laughter.

"Asleep, nothing, you were out cold," she says, "Of and on for a couple of days. Looked bad, you know? How about you don't do that again."

As if she can help it. And it's no wonder she feels like shit if it's been a few days. She probably looks like shit too if how she smells is any indication. She feels bad for everyone who took a turn carrying her. 

Morrigan should have found them by now. They must have gone too far out of the way. 

"If we go slow, I might be able to walk," she says. And it might give Morrigan and Zevran a chance to circle back around and find them. 

Fenris slows for a moment but then shakes his head and picks up his pace.

"There's no point. You'll only tire yourself out," he says, "Save your strength."

She would rather walk, but from the rumble of agreement from her companions, it's clear she has been out voted. 

"What's our next step?" she asks, "Now that Dirthamen---"

"No," Fenris says.

"No?" She opens her eyes and regrets it. Everything is still too bright. The colors are all just a little bit off. Nauseating.

"No," he repeats, "I said save your strength. I meant it. You can ask your questions when you can stand on your own two feet without falling over."

Sera thinks that is just hilarious. 

"Good luck with that," she says.

"We're out of health potions. Do you want me to try to heal you again?" Merrill asks, "It might go better this time." She falls in step beside Fenris.

"What do you mean it might go better?" Lavellan asks. What in the Void happened while she was out? 

"Pfft," Sera says, "That's a whole bag of no. Didn't work. Don't bother." Whatever Dirthamen did, she hopes she never has to feel it again, because this is ridiculous. The health potion Sera gave her should have worked. Any healing magic should have worked. 

"You tried to---and it didn't---"

"Well, it might work now," Merrill says.

Oh, Gods, please just stop talking, she thinks. 

"Stop pestering her. Now," Velanna says. It makes Merrill jump and Sera roll her eyes, but then, thank the gods, they do shut up.

 

They don't find this mysterious town Mahariel believes exists so they stop when it is too dark to continue. Everyone is sore and tired, Fenris most of all, because he carried her the entire day. She is a lot heavier than his sword.

He is asleep almost as soon as his head touches his bedroll.

They don't bother with dinner---they choke down dry rations. She regrets it immediately. The jerky sits like a stone in her belly. 

Mahariel takes first watch.

She props herself up beside him and waits for the others to fall asleep. She doesn't wait long though.

"Tevinter," he says, before she can ask.

"I beg pardon?"

"That's where we're going. I haven't changed my mind," he says, "Merrill knows the location." She stares at him because by now she had hoped he would be sane. But this plan? He can't still expect it to work.

"You can't be serious," she says. 

"It's our best chance," he says. Until Sera and Fenris leave, and then it's their worst chance. He is as bad as Solas and twice as stubborn, and she is tempted to tell him that. 

"Well what else have you considered?" she asks. 

"I don't know, can the anchor open another rift in the sky?"

"That is not even a little funny," she says.

"I wasn't trying to be," he says. He is telling the truth. Sort of. He has gone beyond all the safe, reasonable options and all that remains are the horrible ones. If a rift could give him Solas' head, he would damn well try it. 

"You know you're going to lose half of us if you go to Tevinter," she says.

He nods, his gaze shifting to Starfang. Instead of keeping it by his side, it is with the supplies, out of reach. From the look of things, Mahariel is unsettled by it. And that is unfortunate. It is a fine sword.

"It might be better to split up anyway," he says, "There's another orb in the Anderfels. Possibly."

"I think you're missing the point."

"No, I see what you're getting at," he says, "A power grab is a bad idea."

"Then why are we still doing it?"

She wants him to tell her something she hasn't already considered. She wants flawless logic. She wants a new perspective. She wants to be convinced that the risk is worth it. She wants something, anything, to quiet her unease.

Mahariel is staring into the dying flames and she thinks one of them should add more firewood. But she still can't and he doesn't. 

"We have seen this before," he says, "It's only a matter of time before the ancients decide the world is better without us in it. You know them. We aren't people. We're more like pets, only worth something as long as we're amusing."

She knows that bitterness. She still shares it. The Elvhen never considered her Solas' equal. Comparing her to a prized Mabari is almost appropriate. She couldn't go out without her master. No. It was much too dangerous. Poor damaged thing.

And if not for Solas, she likely would have died on the battlefield. She was the Inquisitor, the enemy---there was no reason to spare her. They would have cut her down. 

She supposes she should thank Solas, but it is too hard to be grateful.

"Do you really believe this is the only way?" she asks.

"He's a god, Ellana, what else can we do?" 

She doesn't have an answer for him. She has spent too many nights searching already. Nothing else comes. There is only the hunt for lost elvhen power or they can retreat, but where can they go that he won't find them? How far is far enough? If the elves start leaving their homes for this mysterious haven, no doubt he will notice. His spies will follow.

Her chest hurts and not all of it is because of Dirthamen's spell.

"I don't know," she says, "I'm sorry."

"So am I," he says, "We had a castle, you know? I was supposed to retire. Chain of command was all squared away. I just had to officially pass on the torch to my successor. Zevran had a tour of Antiva planned. Assassins and whores and seedy underbelly shit, the good stuff, all of it."

He takes a breath and lets it out slow.

"And then the Dread Wolf dropped his pants and pissed all over it," he says, "We were getting ready to ride when it happened. Wiped out the ranks. Velanna was the last of the senior officers, thanks of course to Warden Fucking Commander Clarel. I swear you ride off on a secret mission for a few years and it starts raining demon kittens and blood mages. Commander my ass."

"She came through in the end," she says.

"I don't fucking care. She wiped her ass with my army," he says, "There was no reason to fall for that little shitbag's lies. She was a warden. She should have known."

Maybe Mahariel knows what he's talking about but she finds it hard to agree. She doesn't believe she would have done better than Clarel. Not if she had to hear the Calling, had to fight against a compulsion like that. Clarel had been desperate, and if there's one thing Lavellan does understand, it's that.

But those were better times. And how horrible is it to think of it like that? The world almost ending, the chaos, and all that death was preferable to this.

"We were the last," Mahariel says, "Just Velanna and me and a couple dozen recruits. And I couldn't leave it all to her. The recruits were too raw. Goodbye, sex vacation. Goodbye, Antiva. Hello, war. Again."

"I'm sorry," she says.

She is still annoyed at the rumors of his death. She would have gone to Amaranthine herself if she'd known he was alive. The damn Grey Wardens and their secrets. The world was ending and he was ready to vacation in Antiva. She hadn't even had the option to quit.

Maybe if he'd been on the front lines with her, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if Hawke hadn't been so damned stubborn about protecting Kirkwall. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. 

She had needed champions but none had come.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, "I was killing dragons long before you hit puberty. I earned that vacation."

"Please. You're not that much older than I am."

"Maybe," he says, "But I paid my dues. I wanted a rest. Just once. Just that one time. And it was still too much to ask."

"I know," she says. 

He had had saved the world. He gave just about everything he had but in exchange he lost the Wardens and then he had lost Kieran too. He deserves peace. He deserves that vacation with Zevran. Antiva. Something other than a war with the Dread Wolf.

She is going to regret this.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe this is all we can do," she says, "But ultimately, I don't think this is something we can decide on our own. It's too important. We should all have a say---"

"I won't tell anyone what to do," he says, "I am going after Elgar'nan's orb. If anyone wants to come with me, that's fine, but if not, it changes nothing."

"It should. If your most trusted friends won't join you, there's something terribly wrong."

They lapse into silence. Then he looks over at her, tries to smile, and fails. She is right and he knows it.

"I know you've spent the last few days unconscious, but you should try to get some sleep," he says, "As bony as Fenris is, it couldn't have been restful."

But she doesn't want to close her eyes. 

 

She is scooped up into a fierce hug almost before she realizes where she is, before she recognizes the gray swirling nothing. Solas shudders and buries his face in her neck.

When she shuts her eyes, she can pretend it was all just a bad dream. Solas isn't the Dread Wolf. He didn't destroy the world. Everything is fine.

"Where are you?" he asks. It's little more than a whisper against her skin but she feels all of the emotion behind it. 

He is terrified.

"Tell me," he says, "Tell me."

Her instinct is to play dumb, to make him ask, but when she opens her mouth, nothing comes out. His arms are tight around her and he is solid and real. It feels too good. Even now.

"I couldn't find you," he says, "For days, I searched the Fade---there wasn't so much as an echo. Just gone. I thought you were---I thought---"

He breathes in deep against her neck.

"I'm not dead, Solas, I'm fine," she says.

"You are not fine. Something severed---disrupted your connection to the Fade," he says, "It could have been permanent. You would have been trapped inside yourself, little more than a walking corpse."

If that was what he believed, it's no wonder he's shaking. He kisses her just below her ear, along her jaw. He tilts her head back and brushes his lips against hers. Too soft. Too gentle. A touch that is barely there.

Unthinking, she leans into it. She only catches herself after, when his fingers tangle in her hair, when his lips part. And his tongue...gods. 

His tongue is hot and sweet and she should not be doing this.

She pushes him away. She doesn't look above his collar because if she does she'll see his eyes and she won't be able to stop. Gods, she can't do this again.

"I'm fine," she says again. She touches her mouth, hides it behind her palm. How does he do this? Just when she thinks---just when she's strong enough---

"Please don't do this," he says, "Let me help you. Tell me and I'll come for you. I'll heal you. I can protect you now."

"Who did you find in the Deep Roads?" he asks.

 _Who did you find_ , and not _what did you find_. He suspects. He probably knows. 

He was searching for Dirthamen when he found Falon'din---Lusacan. 

He knows.

"You know exactly who we found," she says.

"Tell me it wasn't Dirthamen, please," he says. But one look at her face gives her away. His breath rushes out and he is horrified.

"I did not think you would dare to do something that foolish," he says.

"Then I suppose we're even," she says. And a fine pair indeed. She woke an ancient, vengeful hungry god and he destroyed the world. She could just imagine the things they could achieve if they were on the same side.

It would be horrible.

"It doesn't matter," she says, "The problem has already been resolved." She will not give him the satisfaction of knowing it was his spell that saved the day. She is not that generous. 

"How has it been resolved?" he asks.

And there it is. There is the edge to his voice, an abruptness that makes her tense. She is not some misbehaving da'len, sneaking into one of the human settlements long past curfew. She does not owe him an explanation.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, but she almost tells him. It almost comes tumbling out of her mouth because he is looking at her like that. 

No. She is strong. She helped cast Dirthamen out of Merrill. If she can do that, she can handle Solas.

He makes his face soft. He sighs. He breathes. 

And then he is pulling her in. His touch slides up her spine. His fingers thread through her hair again. His lips on her throat, her cheek, her mouth...

She lurches back. 

Every time she lets down her guard, this happens. Every time.

He is so bad for her. 

She is not strong. Not at all.

"It's not going to work," she says, "So you can just stop." She is already out of breath and her cheeks are too hot. So stupid. What was she thinking?

"What's not going to work?" he asks, and he is pretending to be hurt, confused, flummoxed. He knows what she means. He knows. How could he not?

"This. You. Everything," she says, "Stop trying to distract me."

"Not everything I do has an ulterior motive," he says. 

The flicker of hurt helps a little. She almost laughs because she doesn't believe him. How can he even say that with a straight face? He may not always have an ulterior motive, but he comes close. For as long as she has known him, he has been manipulating her. So he is wrong. She knows. 

"This time, it does," she says. 

She needs space between them. Any distance, no matter how small, no matter how seemingly insignificant, would do. She takes a step back. If she can just have a moment to think, to breathe.

But he follows. Dirthamen has changed everything.

"Where are you?" he asks. 

He matches her step for step. When she moves, he moves and she is so frustrated she wants to scream. 

He will find a way to track them and he will come. No matter what she says. He hasn't heard a damn thing.

Not a word.

"You're still injured. Let me heal you," he says, desperation creeping in to his tone. He pleads. It is as if the whole world depends upon this and her and him finding her again. And she hates it. She hates it so much.

"I said no," she says. She is not going back. She is not letting him take her away again. Why can't he understand? 

"Please," he says, "Please." And he reaches for her.

 

She is jolted awake, but by what, she doesn't know. Everyone is asleep except for Merrill and she is too far away to have touched her. Besides, she is staring off into the distance, her face twisted in misery. She hasn't noticed Lavellan is awake. 

It wasn't Merrill, then. It was something else, she thinks, or someone. Someone she can't see.


	61. When the Lines Are Drawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Mahariel is afraid.

There is more elfroot in their packs than they should have---just enough to make three health potions. One for her, one for Merrill, and one for Fenris. Then, they are ready to continue.

"I don't understand it," Velanna says, "I checked the bags three times. There was nothing left. I don't know how I could have missed it."

But Lavellan knows.

And Sera knows---she makes a face. She curls her fists and her whole body goes tense.

"Don't care," Sera says, "But if I see any _one_ I'm not supposed to see, I'm busting out the bees. Hear me?" And then she pokes the air around her with her bow and Velanna looks mildly concerned.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Just making sure," Sera says, "It's creepy and I don't like creepy."

"I swear you get stranger as the days go by," Velanna says.

But Lavellan knows who Sera thinks it is and she hopes she is right. If it is Cole, she doesn't have to worry. If it is Cole, the elfroot means he's better. He's more himself. He is back to helping, and to be honest, she could use a bit off good news.

There is no sign of Morrigan or Zevran. They should have been back by now. They should have found them. 

Something has gone wrong.

But even with the health potion and another of Merrill's healing spells, Lavellan has not recovered enough to walk very far. 

The pace they set is excruciatingly slow and Mahariel's temper is starting to fray. When they stop for the third time in two hours, it is clear he has had enough. He looks at her and she can't help but feel chastised.

"This is ridiculous," he says. He is curt. He is abrupt. He unbuckles his scabbards and passes them to Fenris. 

"It can't be helped," she says, "I'm doing my best." And she isn't a warrior or a rogue. She doesn't have Grey Warden endurance. She can't be expected to bounce back as quickly as he would have.

He hunches down in front of her and gestures for her to climb on to his back. She would much rather kick him, push him face first into the dirt.

"I'm not stopping every few minutes," he says, "We have ground to cover." 

His point is overshadowed by his rudeness. She is not terribly inclined to comply. It is one thing to be carried when she can't walk and another thing to be carried when she can walk but not fast or long enough to suit him.

But Velanna catches her eye and shakes her head in warning. 

Oh. Right. Zevran is missing and Morrigan is missing and Mahariel is afraid.

"You know I'm not doing this on purpose," she says. She hands Velanna her staff. 

She lets him coax her onto his back and wraps her arms around his neck. He hefts her up a little farther, like she weighs nothing at all, and starts walking. They had better find Zevran soon because she is getting dangerously close to the ends of her patience. 

"No one's implying you are," he says.

"That's exactly what you're implying," she says.

"Then I apologize. That isn't my intent," he says, "I don't like being out in the open like this. We're too easy a target."

There are few trees between them and the horizon. It is mostly tall grass---flat lands and low rolling hills. One good archer is all it would take to put an end to their rebellion. 

But it will be easier for Morrigan to find them. 

She would like to know where Mahariel gets all this energy. He walks and he walks and he is barely winded by the time they finally stop---well over four hours later. Grey Warden stamina is ridiculous.

And someone has been into the supply bags. Somehow. While they were walking. While Velanna and Merrill and Sera were carrying them. There is spindleweed. There is more elfroot. There are twelve potatoes. 

There is also a pretty handkerchief---a gold M embroidered in one corner. Merrill finds it tucked in one of her belt pouches. When the shock wears off, it makes her eyes go soft and watery. 

If this isn't Cole's doing, Lavellan doesn't want to know.

 

When Mahariel sits them down and starts his talk, it all goes to shit.

"You're joking," Fenris says, his voice flat.

But Mahariel isn't joking. 

By the time he gets to the part about the orb in the Anderfels, Fenris has gone pale. 

"You want us to---no, you can't be serious," he says. But then he is red faced because he knows Mahariel. He means it, all of it. This is real. This is his plan. This is their next mistake.

"You don't have to do anything, if you don't want to," Mahariel says, "But I thought if we split up, it would makes sense. I mean, I know you don't want to set foot on Tevinter soil." As if this is a favor somehow.

"Wow," Sera says, "Crammed your head in a little too far. Might want to come up for air."

"It's not that bad," Mahariel says.

But Fenris' face says it is.

"It's terrible. You're terrible," Sera says, "We're not doing that. Hey, you, tell him we're not doing that." She nudges Lavellan a little too hard, and she expects her to fix this somehow. 

But she has tried to talk Mahariel down and it doesn't work. 

"It _is_ a terrible idea," she says, trying anyway. 

There is no guarantee that Solas hasn't already found both orbs. It is just as likely they'll find his soldiers stationed and waiting for them. It is just as likely they'll be captured. This plan is going to get them into trouble.

"I have been patient," Fenris says, "But this is too much. Even for you."

"It's the Anderfels, I can't say I blame you."

"Don't," he says, "It is appalling you can still make jokes after what happened. "

Merrill seems to shrink in on herself. She has not said much about Dirthamen since it happened. She doesn't really sleep, and when she starts to doze, she wakes with a start, choking on her fear.

Dirthamen is gone but he has not been erased. 

"Fenris---" Mahariel starts, but Fenris is done. He is. His shoulders square and his jaw goes tight and he stares at a point just past Mahariel's head. 

"No," he says. Do not ask again, his tone says. His hands are clenched so tight, his knuckles are white.

Mahariel was not really expecting this. He was expecting resistance and then acceptance. She can see the flicker of shock in his eyes. He is usually so good at saying the right things to make everyone believe he knows what he is talking about. 

Well, everyone except for Sera. She has always seemed to be immune.

"I say we go back to tossing bombs at his castle," Sera says, "That was a bit more fun than this shite. The more ancient crap we dig up, the bigger the hole gets. Pretty soon it's going to come crashing down and I'd like to not be at the bottom when it happens. Know what I mean?"

"The bombs didn't work," Mahariel says, "Besides, do you even have any left?"

She shrugs.

"I've got Widdle's notes. We go back for Dalish, she can figure it out," she says, "What? It's a better plan than throw your friends at ancient elf magic to see what sticks."

It isn't better. It is just as bad. They don't know what they're doing.

Lavellan sighs but she doesn't get the chance to say anything. Velanna cuts her off.

"I think we should consider it," Velanna says, "We need more people. We need supplies---"

And no one wants to think about that. They need supplies but they need to get them from someone they can see. Not an invisible guardian. Not a friendly spirit. 

Mahariel puffs out a breath of frustration.

"And in the mean time, the Dread Wolf gets his hands on the orb and uses it. Is that what you want?" he asks, "It's Andruil's orb. Not Ghilan'nain. Not Sylaise. Not June. Andruil. How do you think that's going to go?"

She should find a way to make him stop talking. Because every time he opens his mouth, he makes a point. They can't let Solas get his hands on any more power.

"Anyone?" Mahariel asks, "Come on. Don't be shy. How do you think we'll fare once the Dread Wolf takes Andruil's power?" 

"I think you're getting carried away with yourself again," Velanna says.

"I might be," he says, "But I'm right. Things are going to get much worse if he beats us to that orb."

"And it will be twice as bad if we---if you---damn it, Mahariel, look around," Fenris says, "We can't fight him like this. We can't stop him."

Everything they have tried has backfired. Neither she nor Merrill have fully recovered from the last mistake. She still hurts, but it isn't like Merril. Hers is just physical. With Merrill, it goes much deeper.

"Fenris is right," Lavellan says, "We're in over our heads. We need to regroup. We should meet with the Red Jennies and see where we stand." And Sera punches her shoulder and makes a strange "exploding" sound she doesn't really know how to interpret. 

But Mahariel is unimpressed.

"Maybe we can't beat him yet, but we will," he says, gaze flitting back to Fenris, "But if we don't, we can always go out in that blaze of glory like you always wanted---" 

Zevran would know what to say to stop this disaster. Maybe. She wishes he was here anyway because he and Morrigan should at least weigh in on the decision.

She hugs her knees and stares into the fire. 

She doesn't want Solas to be right again.

"A blaze of---I never wanted that," Fenris says, "I just---enough. I have had enough of this magic."

"Seconded," Sera says, "This is dumb."

"Thirded," Velanna says, "We accomplish nothing going in blind. We don't even know how to unlock the damn thing if we do find it. It isn't as simple as picking it up and saying please."

"Then don't use the damn thing. Hide it. Lock it away somewhere," Mahariel says, "Guard it. Destroy it. Buy it a dress and take it out to a tea party. I don't care, I just don't want him to have it."

That makes Fenris pause.

"You would just sit back and let it be destroyed?" he asks.

"Yes, absolutely," he says, "With Elgar'nan's power and Ellana's, we won't need it."

It is the wrong thing to say, again, because Fenris is furious. His hands clench at his sides and his body goes rigid. 

"She almost died, you idiot. She is not helping you," he says.

But it isn't up to him or Mahariel to decide that. They are in the heat of an argument, she knows, but just the thought of letting someone else decide for her makes her tense up. She has to force herself to breathe, to stop herself from snapping at them.

Fenris is not Solas. Mahariel is not Solas. They aren't truly making the decision for her.

She can't make her fists unclench though. She can't dislodge the heavy feeling that settles in her belly.

"Please stop," Merrill says. Her voice is small and quiet and they almost don't hear her. She sits hunched over, her arms pressed between her legs and her belly.

"Just stop," she says, her voice rising.

"Merrill?" Velanna asks. She touches her arm, but Merrill pulls away as if she's been burned.

Mahariel has the good grace to look concerned. He breathes. He tries to calm down. He looks at her. 

"What's wrong?" he asks as if he doesn't already know, as if he can't see it on her face.

"No, nothing. I don't know. I'm too tired. I just want to---I want to get some sleep," she continues, "Can we please just stop? Talk about this later? Without me, maybe?" Her voice breaks.

"It's alright. I understand. You don't have to do anything," he says, "If you want, we can finish this without---"

She is already on her feet, scrambling away, and the look Velanna gives Fenris and Mahariel is murderous.

"There, that is what I'm talking about," Fenris says once she is out of earshot, "That. You don't even care."

"Don't," Mahariel says.

"It's the truth," he says, "You don't give a damn about any of us. Just the mission."

"You think any of this is easy for me? I've known Merrill all my life."

"Then act like it."

"Fenris, please," Mahariel says, "The Dread Wolf will come for us, once he's too powerful to fight. You know he will. How many of his did you kill? How many patrols? Do you think he'll let that stand? How long do you think you have before he comes for you or the people you love? A year, a month, maybe? A week?"

But Fenris snarls.

"He has already come for the people I love. He has taken them all," he says, "This right here, you, all of you. You're the last. I'll be damned if I sit back and watch while you serve us up to him." 

His expression twists. She sees his fear. She sees his grief. And then she can't stop seeing the faces of the dead---all the people they have lost to Solas' mad quest. Dorian. Varric. Everyone. They shouldn't have had to die.

"But Fenris, if he gets the orb, he won't need me to," Mahariel says, "Nothing I do will matter. None of my mistakes will matter. He will be a god and gods do not suffer the disobedience of us mere mortals. They take what they want and they burn what offends them. We are already dead. We died the moment we stood against him."

Fenris is silent. They are all silent, because what can they say to any of that? He is right and he has won and he knows it.

Damn it all.

"Fine," Fenris says, "Just fine. We will find this _thing_ and we will find a way to destroy it. But don't expect any more help from me. I'm done. You are a fool and I will not watch you die."

Mahariel doesn't look angry when he stands. He doesn't look triumphant either. He turns and heads after Merrill and she thinks he looks disappointed. It is almost as if he wanted ---as if he wanted them to change his mind.

Perhaps they still can, she thinks.

When Sera shakes out her bedroll, she finds pretty feathers. When Mahariel shakes his out, when he returns from talking to Merrill, he finds leather gloves. 

"Stay out of me things, Creepy," Sera shouts.

Mahariel turns the gloves over and over and she has never seen him look this sad.

 

They are a day's ride from Hunter Fell, finally, and there is still no sign of Morrigan or Zevran. It is a risk to come here, but they have to know. They have to see if they made it this far, at least. 

That is when Solas comes to her.

The Fade is not beautiful tonight. It is the dull brown of the forest just before the first snow fall. After the orange has gone from the leaves. After the birds have gone south. 

The Fade feels dead around her.

"I have something of yours," he says, "Come to Hunter Fell. We will make an exchange." He doesn't know they are already so close. He can't have guessed, but it is strange, nonetheless. It worries her. 

She laughs.

"You didn't really think that would work, did you?" she asks, because why on earth would she agree? What could he possibly have that belongs to her? Except for Forgewright, and that is broken beyond repair, she can think of nothing.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"I told you already, I am fine," she says, "Stop pestering me and build your library. Isn't that what you were doing before all this?"

She does feel fine. No matter what he believes. She doesn't need his help and she doesn't want it. In a few more days, she will be as she was. 

"Come to Hunter Fell," he says, "I will wait for you."

No. Has he gone deaf since last they spoke? Or perhaps he has only lost his ability to hear her? Perhaps it's the level of common sense that confounds him.

"I have already rejected that proposal, try another," she says. Or rather, don't try. Go away. She would like one dream to be uninterrupted by his questions.

"I have something of yours," he repeats, "I think you'll want it back. At the very least, Mahariel will want to know. Please, vhenan, do not test me." It makes the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

And now she knows. The truth is written on his face. Morrigan and Zevran. That is why they haven't returned.

"What have you done?" she asks.

"Only what I must," he says, "You do not know Dirthamen as I know Dirthamen. I will not stand by while he destroys you."

"He's not destroying anything right now," she says.

"Do you truly believe the Dalish god of secrets would be so easily defeated?" he asks, "You have no idea what you are doing."

She is angry because he is making her doubt herself again. Her first real victory since Corypheus. It gave her back a piece of herself. He can't take that away again. She'll be damned if she lets him.

"Tell Mahariel," he continues, "I will wait for you." He does not smile. His gaze is impossibly sad and she hates him for it.

"If you hurt them," she says. Gods, if he dares, she doesn't know what she will do, "Let them go."

"I will wait," he says, "But I will not wait long."

"No, let them go!" she says, "You can't keep doing this. You don't own me. Stop trying to control---"

He hisses.

"When you are left alone, you wake very old and very dangerous things---and not just a mage this time, but a being your people called a god. You sought a god and you found him," he says, "This is why I can't leave you alone. You risk all that remains of the world. You are a danger to yourself. You are a danger to everything."

She does not like the sound of that. She does not like the look in his eye. She does not like where any of this is going.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asks.

"Only if I have to," he says.

She feels a flutter of fear---a jolt, an electric feeling shoots up her spine. 

"Only if you have to," she repeats, "That sounds like a yes." Then they have come to the end of his fuse. This is the edge of how much he loves her. A part of her is surprised. Hurt, even. And that is ridiculous. 

She has been telling him for months it will come to this. She touches his face. Why does this hurt? 

He shuts his eyes, leans in to her touch. He breathes out, his shoulders shaking.

"Let them go," she says, "And you won't have to kill me."

He grabs her wrist, holds her hand in place. 

"I can't do that," he says, "I can't let them go. Not before I see you."

"As you wish, "she says, and then she steps back. Her chest hurts and her eyes are burning with unshed tears but she makes him let go. Isn't this what she wants, needs? Why is she sad?

It feels like goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just about killed me. I tried five different drafts and my poor computer almost didn't survive.  
> It has not been a good week.


	62. The Thief in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't follow Mahariel's logic.

When she wakes her staff is missing. The air is quiet and still and Merrill, who had volunteered for the night watch again, has nodded off. There are still a few hours before dawn.

She doesn't want to wake her, or anyone, but this is not an ordinary, replaceable staff. This is the staff that is holding the shard of Falon'Din. 

But it is not the worst thing she has to tell them.

Morrigan.

Zevran.

Solas.

Eventually she will have to hit the bottom, because it can't go on, getting worse, forever. There has to be an end to it.

Merrill is clutching the handkerchief she found. She drops it when she wakes. She jolts, her eyes popping open, and her breath rushing out. She is wild for a moment, before she realizes where she is and that she is safe.

"I didn't mean---I wasn't," she says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Lavellan doesn't want to tell her. She wants to smile and pat her arm and tell her not to worry, but they are beyond that. Things are bad. Things are bad and they are going to get much, much worse.

Starfang is still safe and sound in its scabbard.

So she wakes the others and she tells them and she wants to crawl into a hole and die.

"I'm sorry," Mahariel says, propping himself up on his elbows, "You couldn't possibly have said what I think you said. You lost the god of death and you lost it while you were sleeping?"

"It was stolen," she says.

But this couldn't have been Cole, could it? What would he want with her staff? What would he want with Falon'Din? It isn't like him. At all.

"Of course it was," Fenris says. He sighs and shakes his head.

Sera's face turns stormy.

"As far as pranks go," Sera says, "Yours need work. Because this has to be a prank. Tell me it's a prank."

It is not a prank. She wishes it was. It is hard to breathe.

"But there's more," she says.

"Nope, don't want it," Sera says, "We're all full up on bad news. Isn't room for more." But she can't stop. 

"It's about Morrigan and Zevran," she says and now there is quiet.

"He has them," Mahariel says, his voice flat.

And then he is sitting up, he's propelling himself towards her, eyes too wide, his face drawn. He grabs her arms and she is glad she slept in her armor because he would be hurting her if she hadn't. 

"Are they still alive?" Fenris asks, but he looks at Mahariel like he wants to pull him back, make him let go. She wishes he would. 

"I think so." But she doesn't know for sure and that answer makes Mahariel bristle.

"You thinks so," he says, "You don't know. You don't---how can you not---tell me. What did he say? Tell me word for word."

She does---as much as she can remember---and she can tell by the way he tightens his grip, it isn't helping. Sera covers her face with her hands and each breath she takes is too loud. Her shoulders are too tense. She is shaking. Mahariel is worse, but Sera is louder. It keeps drawing her attention away.

"We can get them back," Lavellan says, "He is willing to make an exchange." 

For her. Always. It is the same thing again and it is going to blow up in their faces. This time he'll probably send people around to catch the rest of her group. He'll smile and nod and lie through his teeth. Of course, he will play fair, except that he won't. Except that he wants them to stop. For good. There is only one way to ensure that.

"That's stupid. You're stupid. You're all fucking stupid," Sera says, and she pulls her hands away, she looks at her, "He's going to kill them and then us and maybe you. He's not giving anyone back. Probably sent Creepy to steal your stupid elfy staff of death."

The force of her rage makes Lavellan cringe.

"I shouldn't have sent them," Mahariel says, "This is my fault. I should have anticipated---I should have---" his voice breaks. 

"We couldn't leave the children," Velanna says, "We did the right thing. You can't waste time blaming yourself."

And she is right. Rescuing the children was not the mistake. Dirthman was. And if Lavellan had kept her mouth shut, Solas wouldn't have guessed. He wouldn't have captured them. He wouldn't be making these demands.

"Don't tell me I'm not to blame for this," Mahariel says.

"I didn't. I said don't waste time blaming yourself," Velanna snaps, "There isn't time. After this mess is resolved, you can spend the rest of your life flogging yourself for all I care, but right now, it serves no purpose."

He slumps. He finally lets go of Lavellan's arms. She pulls back, puts some distance between them. She doesn't feel any better though. She can still feel the pressure of his hands on her armor. 

"I don't have enough bees for this," Sera says. She grabs her bow and quiver.

"Where are you going?" Merrill asks. She looks alarmed.

"To look for her stupid staff," Sera says, she gives Merrill a look Lavellan can't interpret. 

When she stalks away from camp, Merrill follows. Lavellan doubts she expects to find anything. If the culprit is Cole, if he doesn't want to be found, they don't have a chance.

"You aren't exchanging yourself this time," Fenris says

As if she has a choice. She doesn't care for that tone either. Or the way he looks at her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a hard line. This is not his decision.

"If we can think of a way around it, I won't have to," she says.

"No. We're not handing you over to him again."

"I'll be fine," she says, annoyed again or maybe still. Maybe she never stopped being annoyed. 

"He's prepared to kill you," Fenris says.

His expression is a mix of horror and fascination and irritation. It says he thinks she must have taken a blow to the head because surrender is not the course of a sane person. She is stupid and silly. 

"Fenris is right. You are our ace," Mahariel says. His voice is shaky for a moment but he steadies it. He pulls himself together, "We can't let him get his hands on you---not even for---we will find another way." 

She could almost believe him but she is starting to recognize his lies. He rolls up his bedroll and starts putting the supplies back in their bags. He pauses when he finds a new whetstone under his scabbards. He huffs when he finds a new bag of dried Prophet's Laurel.

Velanna watches him and the look on her face is strange. 

"You already have a plan," Velanna says. Her breath comes out ragged.

"We're not exchanging you for them either," Fenris says, "What is wrong with all of you? The first time the enemy demands your surrender you're ready to comply. You aren't doing Zevran or Morrigan any favors."

He adds, "The Dread Wolf has no honor. He'll kill you, and he'll kill them anyway."

Maybe he will. 

But Zevran has a way of making people like him---she can't imagine Solas just killing him. He would talk himself out of it. He would find a reason to make Solas change his mind.

She doubts the same is true for Morrigan, but she is Mythal's. That might be enough protection. It might stay his hand.

He could be bluffing.

"Did I say I was going to sacrifice myself?" Mahariel asks, "Don't make assumptions."

But Fenris laughs and Velanna looks amused.

"You aren't as opaque as you believe," she says, "You don't see another way out of this."

Now, he scowls. He tears his gaze away from the extra whetstone and Prophet's Laurel and she can read his frustration. Gods, they are exhausting, Lavellan thinks. 

She rolls her shoulders, trying to chase the tension from her muscles. She isn't letting anyone die, not if she can help it. Not again.

"I'm going to look for my staff," she says, "Fight it out. Or don't. I don't really care." She doesn't want to listen to any more of it. She has already made up her mind. If she has to trade herself again, she probably will. But if she has to fight, she'll do that too. She doesn't like it, but he's not killing any of them. She'll be damned if she lets that happen.

Velanna nods at her. The staff is too important. Why didn't they think to put Falon'Din in something else? Something that would have been harder to steal? Mahariel says nothing. He continues to fuss over the supplies.

But Fenris is staring at her and she can't look at him.

 

She doesn't expect to see her staff again but she does.

Sera finds it in a tree. She is just plucking it out of the branches while Merrill is watching and wringing her hands---that's when Lavellan finds them. 

The staff isn't broken. 

But there is no dark ripple of magic inside it. Falon'Din is gone.

"Don't want to know. Don't want to know. Don't want to know," Sera chants, and she almost throws it at her. 

"It's--" Lavellan starts.

"What part of _don't want to know_ tripped you up?" Sera snaps, "Whatever it is, keep it to yourself. Don't care about magic or Creepy or Falon'Dimwit."

But Merrill is staring at the staff. She still knows how to use the Sight. She can see what's different, what's missing and her face is deathly pale.

Her breath comes in too quick. 

"This is bad," she says, "This is so very bad."

Sera shoots her a dirty look and Lavellan expects her to yell at her. She doesn't though, and she's glad for that. She holds back and pushes past her, roughly toward camp. 

"It's nothing we can't handle," Lavellan says. She doesn't know how convincing she is, but from the look on Merrill's face, she has probably missed her mark.

And Merrill's gaze turns sharp.

"Can we?" she asks, "Can we really? Because from where I stand, it looks like the last straw. If the wrong person took it---"

She can't consider it. Not for a moment because then she'll just. start. screaming. It has to be Cole. He has to have taken it for reasons she can't even begin to guess, and if he did, it's safe somewhere Solas can't find it.

Maybe it's better this way, she thinks. 

But she doesn't really believe herself.

"We can handle it," she repeats, "We banished Dirthamen and he was whole. Falon'Din is just a fragment. We can do this."

Merrill is unconvinced. She follows Sera, and Lavellan is tempted to just sit down and stay in the forest. She hadn't wanted to face Solas again, not really, and especially not while he's prepared to kill her.

What are you playing at, Cole, she wonders. 

And then she does sit. She leans against the base of the tree and waits, hoping he'll appear and tell her. 

Cole doesn't. 

But Fenris does. She hears him before she sees him, so she is already on her feet by the time he appears. She had lost track of time. They must have started to wonder what was keeping her.

"We're ready to go," he says.

But then he pauses, "Sera keeps talking about something she calls Creepy. What is that?"

"She means Cole. He's a spirit of Compassion," she says, "She thinks he's the one putting things in the supply bags." And he likes that even less than Sera does. She hadn't thought it possible.

His frown deepens.

"Right, Cole, " he says, and he looks like he's swallowed something bitter,"And you don't believe he's dangerous?" 

"I don't," she says. Unless you're one of Solas' soldiers and you get in his way, she thinks, but he doesn't need to know that.

He catches her hesitation though. He hears the half truth and she is kicking herself for not being more careful.

"He's the one who helped you escape the first time?" he asks.

"And he helped me find you the second time," she says, "He also helped us seal the breach and later he helped the Inquisition fight Solas. Up until the end." Until he broke. Until he fractured. And then he couldn't. 

"Why did he stop?" Fenris asks, again, catching her hesitation. He is almost following her thoughts and it is unnerving. She wants him to stop. 

"He's a spirit of compassion," she says, "What Solas did---it broke him. All spirits of compassion, I think. There was too much suffering all at once. When they couldn't help, it kept them from their purpose. They splintered."

"What does that mean?"

She hears suspicion. She hears wariness. She hears more than a tinge of anger. Being vague with Fenris doesn't work. He notices. It triggers some kind of alarm.

"It means they stopped being Compassion," she says, "They lost their ability to help."

She makes herself walk, hoping to end the conversation, but just as being vague failed, so does this. He walks beside her, one hand raised to block the low hanging leaves and thin branches. He ducks under the ones he can't bat away.

"What is he now?" he asks, "If he isn't Compassion, he must be something else."

She won't lie. No matter how much she wants to.

"I can't speak for all spirits of Compassion," she says, "But Cole became Apathy, Despair, and Rage."

And Fenris' breath hitches.

"Those are demons," he says, "Your spirit of Compassion is a demon now?"

"No," she says, "He's not. Besides if he's the one leaving us helpful gifts, it means he has started to mend. Demons don't give gifts unless they take something horrible in return." She hopes. 

But if he's the one who took her staff, he did take something horrible in return. He took Falon'Din. He gave them herbs in exchange for the god of death, and if that isn't something a demon would do, she doesn't know what is.

When she risks a glance at Fenris, it is clear that telling him was a mistake. He has followed the same line of thought and arrived at the same conclusion. If he hurts Cole, or tries to hurt him, she doesn't know what she'll do. 

She has to believe he can be saved. 

She has to.

"You put too much faith in people," Fenris says, "And spirits. Even now."

"Do I?" she asks, "That's funny because I think the opposite is true."

"Yes, you do," he says, "Broken things can't always be fixed. You can't save everyone."

"I can't save anyone," she says and she regrets it. She didn't mean to say it at all but it slipped out and it is true. She is better at failing than succeeding. She is better at losing people. She is better at screwing up.

Except for Sylaise. And Dirthamen. Those were wins. Those were things she did right. And she needs to hold on to them if she's going to be in the right frame of mind to face Solas.

She doubts she will ever be in the right frame of mind to fight Solas.

And Fenris' face is dark again. His gaze shifts inward and she doesn't think he's really here with her. He's thinking about something else and someone else and he is struggling. She can't begin to guess what it is or why. 

"Don't sacrifice yourself again," he says. He pushes ahead. He doesn't wait for a response.

 

The journey would be so much better if they had horses. What would have taken a day will take two, maybe longer. She is not at her best.

When Mahariel tries to talk her into another piggy back ride, she puts her foot down. She is tired of being carted around like a sack of potatoes and they have time. Not much but enough. 

And they need---she needs---a chance to think this through. They can't go rushing in, no matter what Mahariel thinks, and he can't just hand himself over or try to stab Solas in the face. It won't work. He won't get a breath out before he turns to stone.

Mahariel makes impatient noises and shoots her exasperated looks every time he glances back.

And when it is too dark to continue on the second day and they are exhausted, he wants to keep going. Velanna has to threaten him to get him to stop. She can see Hunter Fell in the distance. It's just one long walk and they'll be there. 

She isn't ready.

Why won't Cole talk to her? Show himself? Anything? And then she thinks maybe Fenris was right and Cole is too broken, but she feels terrible for even considering it. Even if he did take Falon'Din, even if it is tainting him, Cole can fight. Cole is strong.

Cole is Cole.

She is terrified.

The nearby stream is just deep enough to swim in. It's just deep enough they can scrub the worst of the trail dust and grime from their bodies. It is not warm enough to soothe away their aches and pains but it is comfortable.

The thought of being naked out in the night air like this so close to Hunter Fell is unsettling, but she can't stand the smell or feel of her clothes. And she is not alone in her thinking. They wade in all at once, they don't bother to take turns or fumble with modesty. They each find a corner and stay in it.

She dunks her head under the water and she can't believe how good it feels. She was more disgusting than she had realized.

There is plenty of soap and she could kiss whoever stocked the supply bags. Probably Velanna and she doubts she would appreciate the gesture.

She sighs and lathers her scalp, her nails catching on the tangles and knots. It is remarkable how one little thing can make her feel like a person again.

Sera slips away at some point---Lavellan doesn't notice until she realizes Merrill's gone as well. Panic spikes for a moment. It doesn't make sense they would wander off. They are close enough to Hunter Fell, patrols could find them. But this is Sera, and she's always dragging someone off somewhere. They're probably hunting or gathering more wood for the fire they really shouldn't be burning. Maybe they didn't say anything because---

And then it hits her.

Oh. _Oh._

And her cheeks flush.

She ducks her head under water again, mostly to hide it. Good for Sera and Merrill. If they're off doing what she thinks they're doing, she's not about to go looking and risk interrupting. 

She doesn't want to put her dirty clothes back on or her armor, but there is no other choice. She puts it off as long as she can and then she forces herself to get dressed and head back to camp. Mahariel keeps the fire low, little more than embers, just in case Solas does have patrols looking for them.

He doesn't know when they're going to arrive. He can't know they're already here. She hopes. But he is too clever for his own good. 

Sera and Merrill wander back late, when the rest of them have started to nod off. Fenris takes first watch, and Mahariel claims last. 

 

There is a hand over her mouth when she wakes, but it is light and it lifts when she looks up. Mahariel presses a finger to his lips and gestures for her to follow. He's lucky she didn't burn him. She came close.

She doesn't like the feel of this but she grabs her staff and follows. The stars are still brightly visible and it is much to early for her to be awake yet.

Mahariel is armored up and he looks like he's ready to start the day, but if that's the case, he should be waking the others, not sneaking away. 

When they're out of earshot, he slows and spares her a glance.

"They're not a part of the plan," he says.

"And I am?" she asks, "What is this plan and tell me why I shouldn't make enough noise to wake them all up." Besides the look on Velanna's and Fenris' faces and the fight that would follow.

"He's thousands of years old. He knows every move we could make," he says, "So we're not going to play. We walk in and give him what he wants."

"That's not a plan. That's surrender." And she is not a fan.

He grins.

"I may surprise you yet, lethallan," he says, "Just follow my lead and try not to set anyone on fire."

She snorts, still not convinced she shouldn't scream and wake everyone. But he is right that Solas has their moves mapped out. There is only one way this can go.

But giving him what he wants? That's not exactly Mahariel's style. She would be lying if she said she wasn't suspicious.

"Why don't you surprise me now rather than later?" she asks, so she doesn't have to scramble when it all goes to shit. But Mahariel is getting some kind of thrill out of this. His grin goes wide and she thinks there isn't enough distance between them and Hunter Fell. 

This is a terrible idea.


	63. We Do What We Must

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knew better than to go along with one of Mahariel's plans.

"Hello, da'len. Please fetch your master. I have something I'd like to discuss," Mahariel says.

The soldiers are most definitely not da'len. They are bare faced and ancient and their weapons are drawn. She thinks they are going to ignore him and just take them prisoner. 

"We come under a flag of peace," Mahariel continues, "Surely the Dread Wolf's forces would not be so uncivilized they would deny us simple parlay."

"I see no flag," one of them says but he sends his companion off to find Solas and he waits with his sword at Mahariel's throat. Mahariel tolerates this for a little while, but then he tires of it. He knocks the blade to the side and disarms the soldier at the same time. 

Starfang is pressed to the man's throat, the edge almost splitting the skin.

"The next time you put a sword to my throat, be sure to follow through," he says. And then he steps back, sheathes Starfang, and waits while the soldier retrieves his weapon. The man stays of reach, but Lavellan thinks the distance probably makes no difference. 

Mahariel is quick and deadly and she pities anyone foolish enough to challenge him. 

She doesn't see Solas' grand army, just a handful of soldiers. And that is strange. They should be here. 

But Solas is so powerful, he doesn't need guards. He doesn't need soldiers. And he probably knows there are only the six of them. Why would he bring an army for six people? 

When Solas appears, he is flanked by a very grim faced Abelas and another, an unfamiliar soldier. His gaze fixes on her and she is struck by the sight. He is dressed in ordinary clothes. There is no frill or fuss. He is not even wearing armor. 

He was not expecting them so soon.

"Hello, Beautiful," Mahariel says, grinning, "It's good to finally meet you." Abelas looks like he wants to throttle him and the other soldier doesn't seem any friendlier. She can't really blame them---she is close to throttling him herself.

Disapproval flickers on Solas' face and then confusion. He stares at Mahariel too long before he responds. It's as if he can't figure him out. He is a new, but also unpleasant, puzzle.

"My name is Solas," he says, "Not Beautiful. If you wish this talk to continue, I suggest you remember and refrain from addressing me with ridiculous nicknames."

"What a shame, because I rather excel and giving ridiculous nicknames," Mahariel says, "I can think of a dozen right now just by looking at you. Shiny is a good one. Oh and Grumpy. How about Tea Cup? That one's cute. It suits you."

Tea Cup. Really.

Solas stares at him, bewildered. When he shifts his gaze back to her, his face goes soft.

"Was his presence really necessary?" he asks. He peers at her, using the Sight, she thinks. She wonders what he sees. She has not thought to use it on herself. 

No doubt he will tell her.

In graphic detail.

It is very strange he hasn't brought more soldiers. She can understand leaving the army behind, but still. 

"My presence is very necessary, my dear Dread Wolf," Mahariel says, "You've taken a few of my friends prisoner. I would like to have them back. Please."

The please would almost be funny but this is too serious. If Solas wants to, he could turn him to stone. He wouldn't even have to move. She doesn't understand how he can be flippant in the face of that---unafraid. Solas' expression shifts until it mirrors her own. Mahariel is either very brave, very stupid, or he knows something they don't.

"Your friends can wait," Solas says. And again he stares---it is as if something about Mahariel is unsettling, as if he sees something off. 

Mahariel bows his head, still smiling.

"Of course," he says.

And she has not missed Abelas. The sour twist of his lips and the impatient shake of his head is both distracting and annoying. She keeps shifting focus from Solas to him and she doesn't want to.

"Where are your soldiers?" she asks, "It isn't like you to leave them behind." And finally, he tears his gaze away from Mahariel. 

"I didn't think you would come if they were here," he says, "I don't need them." 

She hadn't thought much about his army. She would have come whether they were here or not. He made sure of that when he took Zevran and Morrigan. She couldn't have refused. And he knew that. 

"You look better than I expected," Solas says, and his fingers twitch, "But still, you are not well." He wants to touch her. She knows

And he is wrong, she thinks. She is fine and he is lying, trying to pull her back in. It won't work this time, though. She has Mahariel to keep her furious, to keep her focused.

"You wanted to heal me," she says, "Here I am. Have at it." 

But he hesitates. 

"Where is Dirthamen?" he asks, his voice sounds strange.

"Where is Zevran?" Mahariel asks, "Where is Morrigan?"

"Yes, Solas, where are they?" she asks, "Are they even still alive?" She bats his hand away when he tries to touch her face.

He hides his hurt well but she can see it. He clasps his hands behind his back and makes himself stiff and stern. And Abelas is much the same but without the hint of hurt. She reads disdain and irritation. She reads anger, the focus split evenly between Mahariel and her. If he had his way, they would already be clapped in irons and tossed into whatever sad room they're using to secure their prisoners. 

"They are well and alive and they will remain so," Solas says.

"Glad to hear it," Mahariel says, "And what do we have to do to get them back? Aside from our surrender, of course, I'm sure there's something you want."

And now Abelas is amused, almost laughing.

"You have already surrendered," Abelas says, "You are here, aren't you?"

"Not quite surrender, you angry pretty thing, you," Mahariel says, "Now run along and be clever somewhere else." And she almost chokes on a laugh. It is not funny. Mahariel's attitude is dangerous and not likely to do them any favors.

"Enough," Solas says, "We will not speak at all if you won't be civil."

"It's hard to be civil when we were strong armed into coming here in the first place," she says, "We've come in good faith, the least you can do is indulge our...frustration. What do you want?"

But he is looking at Mahariel again, the look of confusion growing. It makes her uneasy. There is nothing strange about Mahariel that would warrant such a look. Unless he is just surprised to see him. Why would the leader of the rebellion walk willingly into what is clearly a trap?

Or maybe it's just the blackness of the taint that is confusing him. 

When she uses the Sight, she sees nothing interesting. Dirthamen has shrunk down, compressed himself to a tiny ball of orange against Mahariel's back, where the scabbard touches armor. The light of it is so close, if she didn't know any better, she would think he is hiding in Mahariel. Maybe that is what Solas sees. 

But no. They wouldn't be speaking at all if Solas believed Mahariel was a host.

"Solas," she says.

"Hmmm," he says, and he drags his gaze away, slowly. Too slowly.

"What do you want?" she repeats. 

She regrets drawing his attention away from Mahariel. The weight of his gaze is heavy and she feels over exposed. She feels like he is looking through her, peeling back the layers---but he is not sifting through her thoughts. He is only looking at her. He is only staring too intently. 

She doesn't like it.

He thinks he's going to do more than just talk to her. He thinks they will be alone at some point---he thinks---

"Vhenan," he says. He sighs. 

Abelas' face goes blank. He clears his throat, nudges him just enough to bring him back to reality. 

"I--yes. I will trade your people for Dirthamen," Solas says, "And the fragment of Falon'Din."

She should have expected it, but she is still surprised. She thought he would demand surrender. She thought he would demand prisoners. She thought he would demand Sylaise's magic.

After the look he had just given her, she thought he would demand her return. 

"Interesting, "Mahariel says, "Dirthamen and Falon'Din for Morrigan and Zevran. It's not terrible."

It is terrible. She feels like she has been dunked in a bucket of ice water. She does not want to admit she is a little disappointed, because of course, this was never about her health. It was about him. It was about power and the Evanuris. She grips her staff too tightly. They can't give him Falon'Din and they shouldn't give him Dirthamen. _No, they aren't giving him Dirthamen._ She doesn't know why Mahariel is considering it.

Solas eyes go wide. 

"You put him in a sword?" he asks, and he sounds so shocked, as if he can't believe she could have. Surely, not. Surely, she couldn't have bested him. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from responding. But she feels insulted.

Mahariel feigns surprise.

"You can tell?" he asks.

"I can see him," Solas says, but he seems unsure, "He is smaller than I expected." Whatever the hell that means. How big is a soul supposed to be? No, wait, she doesn't care. She wants to get this over with. She wants to banish this horrible feeling she has because she is almost suffocating under it.

"You can't have Falon'Din," she says, her voice as hard as she can make it, "It almost destroyed you." And he will be worse with Dirthamen.

"My terms are non-negotiable. This meeting is a courtesy and nothing more," he says. And Abelas gives a nod of approval. Yes, she thinks, be stern with the horrible little non-people. 

"Dirthamen is worth an army alone," Mahariel says, "Maybe two armies. You'd be getting a bargain. A powerful god soul in exchange for too rebels."

He is not seriously considering this, she thinks. He can't be. A cold feeling rushes over her. Dread. What is he playing at?

"Dirthamen and Falon'Din for Morrigan and the assassin," Solas says, "I will accept nothing less."

Then they will all be disappointed. They can't give him what they don't have.

"No, you can't have Falon'Din," she says.

"I won't let you keep him, vhenan," he says, cutting her off.

She steps back when he tries to touch her again. He doesn't try to disguise his hurt this time. He lets it sit on his face and Mahariel sees it. She sees the flicker of a smirk. No doubt it will come back to haunt her later.

"You can't have Falon'Din," she says, "Because we don't have him. He was stolen. Pick something else. Something reasonable."

And Abelas is uncrossing his arms, stepping forward, his expression twisting.

"Lies," he says, "You didn't---"

"We did," Mahariel says, "Some sticky fingered, friendly spirit snatched it away while we were sleeping. All we have left is Dirthamen and he doesn't come cheap, my friend. I have terms of my own for you to consider."

Solas schools his expression, he pretends to look bored, but she can see the interest in his eyes. Curiosity. Amusement. What could they possibly ask for, what do they think he would agree to? 

Solas nods his head.

"Very well, what are your terms?" he asks.

Mahariel's grin is gone, all traces of humor gone. He is cold and determined and unwavering. Finally, he is serious. She is almost relieved. Almost. But she can't let her guard down yet. 

"I want my people returned and you out of Nevarra, indefinitely," he says, "I want your patrols gone and I want you to agree to a truce. And just for the hell of it, I want Antiva."

"And the Anderfels," he adds, "And Tevinter."

Oh for fucks sake. What is he doing? What? 

"I'm not giving you Tevinter," Solas says, "I'm not giving you the Anderfels. I am not giving you Nevarra."

Mahariel makes a face.

"Fine, but the rest of it is...non-negotiable," he says. Is he even taking this seriously? Are either of them? 

"As I recall, we tried a truce once before and it didn't work," Solas says, frowning. 

"Yes, well, the terms of that truce were insufficient," he says, "You took one of my people prisoner. It wasn't very neighborly of you."

And now Solas looks confused.

"One of your people?" he asks.

"He means me," she says, and it makes her angry he is so surprised by that. Why wouldn't Mahariel consider her an ally? She has been with them since she escaped. 

Solas will not honor the terms once he has Dirthamen. They can't really hand him over. It is foolish. Stupid. 

"She was not meant to be a prisoner," Solas says. He sounds terrible. 

"It doesn't really matter whether you meant it or not. She was, and now, we're here, again. So, what do you think?" Mahariel says, "Are the terms to your liking?"

"No. Absolutely not," she says. And it is strange but for once she and Abelas are in agreement. He makes a soft sound of protest.

But Mahariel wasn't talking to her. Neither he nor Solas are listening to anyone but themselves. They are thinking. They are deciding. They are ignoring common sense for a lie and they are doing it together. There won't be peace. 

She should have woken Sera and the others. She should have. 

"That is a shame, vhenan," Solas says, "Because I find the terms acceptable. You may have your people and your peace. You may have Antiva. And nothing more." The drop in his voice makes her shiver. The warning is clear. 

He sends the other soldier back inside for Zevran and Morrigan. This has gone too smoothly. Solas has given in too quickly, too readily. Her stomach twists and it is painful.

"I am glad we could come to an agreement," Mahariel says. No. Definitely too easy. She doesn't like it. Something is wrong. 

"As am I," Solas says. She wants to hit the stupid smile off his face. 

"We have not come to an agreement," she says, "We are not giving him Dirthamen."

"It has already been decided," Mahariel says. 

To the Void with that. To the Void with them. She is not here to be some pretty, inanimate thing. She is not here to watch while it all goes to shit.

"It has not," she says, and god help them all if Solas opens his mouth to argue. She can't stand the sound of their voices. 

"My apologies then," Mahariel says, "If you feel you have been mislead." If she feels she---she is suddenly too hot and too angry. Insulted again. Offended. He and Solas are cut from the same cloth, because neither one cares to listen to her. They do what they will and damn anyone who objects.

Solas will have Dirthamen's power. He will find Cole and steal back Falon'Din. He will break the world again and it is Mahariel's fault. And hers for following him.

Gods but she is so sick of everything.

Zevran and Morrigan are unharmed and furious when they see Mahariel.

"Why am I not surprised?" Morrigan asks. She shakes her head looks away. She huffs when the soldier shoves her a little too hard.

"What did you do?" Zevran asks, and she has never heard his voice that sharp, that disapproving, that serious. And he is looking at Mahariel the same way Solas did---as if something is off, different. It is as if something has changed. 

"I did what I must," Mahariel says, "I missed you."

Zevran responds in Antivan---she doesn't understand a word of it, but she gets his meaning. His glare shifts from Mahariel to her and back again. 

"Fools," Morrigan says.

The soldier unlocks the chains on their wrists. Solas stops them when they try to move. 

"Dirthamen first," he says.

Fenris and Sera are right. And she is done listening, done following, done with all of this. If she makes it back to the others, she's leaving. She's letting Mahariel strike out on his stupid quest without her. 

She will not sit back and let him disrespect her. She has had enough of that from Solas and his People. She will not endure it from him. 

"If you wish for Dirthamen," Mahariel says, "You shall have him. Shall we shake on it? Seal the deal."

He doesn't reach for Starfang. He extends his palm and waits. Abelas eyes it as if it were a coiled snake.

Solas is unconcerned.

"Don't," Abelas says, and he tries to step between them.

But Solas only shakes his head and nudges him aside. He grips Mahariel's palm because what could happen? Mahariel is nothing compared to him. He is no one. He is just a man. He is so small.

Mahariel smiles. Mahariel laughs.

He has no reason to laugh.

None.

And then, blue light rushes out of him. Out of Mahariel and not the sword. And she can't think, can't breathe, because this should not be happening. Dirthamen wasn't in the sword. 

But he should have been. She put him there herself. She saw it. This can't be---she couldn't have been wrong. 

The light burrows into Solas and he isn't ready for it. Abelas grabs his shoulders---he keeps him from falling. This isn't like what happened with Merrill..

It is painful. 

It is too much. 

He screams.

She stumbles back---she feels sick. How did Mahariel fool her? When did he---why did Dirthamen go along with it? And for that matter, why is she still alive? She would have thought he would have killed her the first time the opportunity arose. Her stomach churns.

Solas is in pain. So much pain. Abelas can't hold him. He sinks to his knees. He pitches forward, his fingers clawing at the cobblestone.

Dirthamen is hurting him. 

This is wrong.

"You should have brought your army, Dread Wolf," Mahariel says. And the soldier is staring dumbly at him eyes too wide.

"What are you doing?" Lavellan shouts.

"Letting them fight it out," Mahariel says, "It's fitting, don't you think?"

He punches the soldier in the face and then he's grabbing Zevran's arm and they are running and Morrigan is transforming. She knocks the advancing soldiers over and takes flight, the force of her wing beats driving them back when they try to stand.

"I think you're a damn idiot," Lavellan shouts at Mahariel. She struggles to keep up, but she is still recovering from her own fight with Dirthamen. And the small number of soldiers Solas brought along are coming. 

She lays a wall of fire down behind her, blocking their' path. It is hotter than she has ever managed before---they are stopped further back. And then Morrigan is blasting them with dragon's breath. She swoops down once and then soars up, circles around for another strike.

Lavellan runs.

Solas is still screaming, but he is weakening. He is getting quieter. She knows what kind of agony he's in---she felt it when Dirthamen used his horrible spell on her. Whatever he is doing to Solas, it is worse.

Mahariel is a selfish, stupid bastard. He let Dirthamen inside him, even after seeing what it did to Merrill. Even then.

She is far beyond furious. So far beyond. She can almost ignore the pain in her side and the burn of her lungs as she fights to breathe. If Solas loses possession of his body, if Dirthamen takes over, she doesn't know what they can do. She has no hold over him. She can't coax mercy from him. 

He knows where Elgar'nan's orb is. And Andruil's. And probably the rest of them. If he takes control of Solas, he'll have Mythal's powers at his command. And June. Solas will be trapped inside his own mind, watching, always watching, but unable to act. Just as Merrill had been. 

She should not feel bad. She should not feel bad. She should not feel bad.

But she does.

This is wrong. It is cruel.

What have they done?


	64. Dareth Shiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can not stay together.

The fear hits her when she loses sight of Mahariel and Zevran. She tries to run faster but they are just too far ahead and she is already hurting. Morrigan passes once over head and then she's gone too. 

Why is she always getting left behind?

There is no way to not be bitter about it. 

And they are lucky Solas hadn't brought more soldiers. It would be worse if they were still chasing her. It would be worse if she had to stop and fight them alone. Still, she can't stop glancing over her shoulder as she runs. 

She sees nothing but the town and the scorched places, lingering flickers of magic flame---both hers and Morrigan's. 

She is out of breath long before she reaches camp. She hears shouting, the sounds of a scuffle. 

"What do you mean you left her behind?" Fenris is shouting. And she gets there just in time to see Sera aim an arrow at Mahariel's face.

"I didn't leave her---"

Fenris gets Mahariel by the throat, shoves him up against a tree. When he sees her, though, he lets go. His expression doesn't change. He is still furious. He is still seething. But he is not going to murder Mahariel.

He might murder her instead. 

He picks up one of the supply bags and throws it at her. She drops her staff to catch it and the force makes her stumble. 

"Careful," she says. 

"Make yourself useful," he snaps. And Sera finally lowers her bow.

"Tit," Sera says, still looking at Mahariel.

"I told you she was behind me," he says, "Creators, she's the last person in any kind of real danger. She's fine."

But she has a suspicion he forgot about her entirely. He was so focused on rescuing Zevran that everyone else just sort of melted into the background. But she can't be angry about it. It is the lesser of his offenses. 

"You're ok, right?" Sera asks.

She nods, the ache in her chest is still too strong.

"I'll live," she says.

"What in the Void did you two do to get him to let you all go?" Velanna asks, and Lavellan's stomach drops.

Mahariel hasn't told them. She doesn't want to tell them. If she could go on pretending it was just a matter of innocent dumb luck, she would be happy. If she could pretend Solas isn't fighting to keep control of his body, she would be happy.

She busies herself with the supply bag.

But Morrigan is here and she's not one to let a good lie remain unchallenged.

"Mahariel decided it would be best to trick the Dread Wolf into offering himself up as the next host," she says, "In case any of you were curious, Dirthamen is gone." Merrill drops her bag and she is shaking. 

"You did what?" Velanna asks, her voice rising sharply, "Tell me she's lying."

But his face tells it all. He did. They did. And it's every bit as bad as it sounds.

"Why would you---how could you?" Merrill asks, "After everything, why?"

"I know, Merrill, I know, but I am not sorry. I'd do it again," he says, "Exactly the same. I will never sacrifice the people I love. Not Zevran. Not any of you."

"You left _her_ ," Fenris says. He points at Lavellan as he's moving towards Mahariel. She can't see his face but he looks like he's going to catch him by the throat again. And she doesn't know how to process that.

"She was right behind us," Mahariel says, "She was fine. She was never in any danger." And then he gives Fenris a look that says he's done with all of this. _Don't test me, don't push me._

"There isn't time to piss about it," he adds, "Hate me all you want, but do it while you work, because when he pulls himself together, he's going to come charging out of town in a righteous snit. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be here when he does."

"Can you even imagine what an Evanuris in a snit looks like?" he asks. 

Fenris stops and then they are all tearing the camp apart because Mahariel is right. Solas may not have brought his army, but once he recovers, if he recovers, he won't need one. They have to get as far away as fast as possible. 

And without horses.

Morrigan can't carry all of them on her back. 

"We will talk about this later," Velanna says, "And you had better have a damn good excuse. What you did was reckless. You put us all at risk, and it will not happen again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Keeper," he says. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. 

And that is a mistake.

"Do not mock me," she says, "Or I will leave you to sort this mess out alone."

"I'm not--"

"You were," Velanna says, cutting him off, "You absolutely were and I don't appreciate it."

He sighs and rubs his eyes, and finally, finally, he looks remorseful. 

"You're right," he says, "I'm sorry, Velanna."

But Velanna is not appeased. Not even a little. They spend the next few hours, hiding, and walking in an uncomfortable silence. She wishes it would stop. She wishes everything could go back to the way it was.

They do not encounter any patrols. They do not see any soldiers.

 

She is afraid to sleep, afraid of what she'll find, but her body gives her no choice. She nods off soon after they stop for the night. And as it always is in the Fade, she loses track of time.

Solas isn't there, but then, he is, dressed all in black.

The sky is an orange sunset and there are white blossomed cherry trees surrounded by orange rhododendrons. There is dogsbane and dragonswort and white datura blossoms. There are purple irises and white and blue and yellow. 

She has never seen them grow together like this. It is unlikely they could all thrive in the same soil or all at the same time. 

She holds her breath and just looks at him. He stares. He doesn't smile. He doesn't move.

"Are you still you?" she asks. He looks the same, but appearances mean nothing, especially in the Fade.

"I suppose I am," he says, "But how would I know?"

It should put her at ease. He asked her something similar once and her answer was the same. Dirthamen wouldn't know it, and Solas would. But it does not put her at ease. 

"I didn't know Mahariel was going to---" she says, she tries to say, "He did that all on his own."

The excuse is embarrassing. She should have known. He shouldn't have been able to trick her like that. At all. And she should not admit it to anyone. 

The way he's staring at her makes her uncomfortable. It's as if he can hear every thought again. He's looking through her, thinking, plotting. 

"Are you alright?" she asks.

She sounds worried. She doesn't want to sound worried.

Still, he doesn't smile. He would have before. He would have heard the concern and it would have encouraged him, but now, his face is just that damn, blank mask. He waits. He lets her stumble over her words. He lets her sweat.

"I am fine," he says.

But he isn't. 

He isn't.

"I should thankyou," he says, "For saving me quite a bit of time." And then he does move. He drifts closer and she doesn't want him to continue. She doesn't want him to explain. Please stop, she thinks.

There is a pattern in the black silk of his robes. She can barely make it out, but when the light hits it just right, she sees two birds, twined together. Ravens.

"Don't thank me, thank Mahariel," she says, "I was just a pawn."

"No. It was you," he says, "It was always you."

She doesn't know what he means. She hears traces of Dirthamen's strange accent creeping into his voice. She sees a change in the way he stands, the way he holds himself. He is not nearly as stiff or tense or concerned. 

He is relaxed. He is in control.

And he doesn't know. He can't feel Dirthamen's influence. 

"Won't you come home?" he asks, "Help me restore the Vir Dirthara. Our bed is so very cold without you, vhenan." But it sounds like he's trying not to laugh, like he doesn't mean any of it. 

"Don't underestimate Dirthamen," she says, "We did. And it was a mistake."

There is a flicker of a smile, too quick to really pin down, but she sees.

And it makes her skin crawl.

"We used your spell to expel him, we can do it again," she says, and she can't stop talking, "Or Abelas---your mages. Tell Abelas. I'll help if it's too much. I've done it once before." Why can't she stop talking?

She tries not to flinch when he traces the line of her jaw, when he grips her chin and tilts her head back. Just exactly the way Razikale tilted Merrill's head back, when she was offering to "help" them. 

She can't breathe.

She can't. 

"If you try, da'len, I will peel Mahariel like a grape," he whispers, "Or dear, sweet little Merrill. I do like that one. So...innocent. So trusting. She is a rare one in this age." 

Horror twists in her belly because that is not something he would say. He would never. He would kill if he had to but not like that. 

Solas doesn't even know Merrill.

She feels sick.

His face twists when she tries to pull away. His grip is suddenly too tight. He drags her closer.

"And the grey warden," he says, "I would kill her first, I think. Velanna. Oh, Velanna. She thinks she's so clever but it was more luck than skill. She will not catch me off guard again. The magic in this body is too strong."

No, she thinks. It took him days to wear Merrill down. Days. He couldn't have taken Solas over already---he couldn't. 

"You're not Solas," she says. Why would he come to her at all then? Why seek her out?

His smile stretches too wide and his teeth are too close to her face. He is delighted. 

"But I am, vhenan, ma sa'lath," he says, his tone mocking, spiteful, hateful, "I am Solas." His breath is cool on her skin, his lips soft. He kisses the corner of her mouth and she can't push him away. She can't move. 

"I am now," he whispers.

 

Someone is shaking her and she is screaming.

"It's just a dream," someone says, "It isn't real."

But it is real. 

She stops screaming and the sleep clears from her eyes but she can still see his face. She can feel his hands. She can hear the rasp of his voice in her ear.

Dirthamen has won. He has bested Solas and taken control of his body. 

"What did he say?" Fenris asks. He lets go of her arms and sits back on his heels. Mahariel leans forward. 

Everyone is looking at her, waiting. 

Lavellan can't speak yet. Her throat is raw from screaming and she can't seem to catch her breath. If anyone could have resisted, it should have been Solas. If anyone could have beaten him, it should have been Solas.

She sits up. She tries to slow the wild pulsing of her heart.

"He's not Solas anymore," she says.

And suddenly no one seems that interested in breakfast. Sera had been pawing through one of the bags, taking out the trail rations, but she shoves everything back inside. And Merrill drops the canteen. When she tries to pick it up, she can't. She ends up just sliding it towards Lavellan.

"Well then," Morrigan says, "It seems we have no choice. We must retrieve Elgar'nan's orb. Beautifully done, Mahariel, you always did have a knack for getting things to go your way." She stands, stretches. She cracks her neck. She rolls her shoulders. She yawns.

"I can carry three or four of you to Tevinter," she continues, "But no more. Choose wisely. I will not return for the rest of you."

She had not expected to part ways yet.

It is much too early for this conversation. 

The waking world doesn't feel real yet. Lavellan is still stuck in the dream. She fumbles with the canteen but somehow manages to get it open. She takes a sip. She tries to choke down a second drink, but the warmth of it is unpleasant. The water is gritty.

Mahariel sighs. He rubs his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Velanna cuts him off.

"No," she says, "You are done making decisions. Your judgment is compromised."

"I beg your---"

"And I said no," she says, "I'll go. And I want either Zevran or Sera. We'll need someone who can disarm traps. And you, Mahariel, you're coming along as well, because it is clear, you have to be watched like a child."

He does not like that. He bristles and the look on his face is a little frightening. 

"Careful," he says, "I seem to recall a time I had to decide whether or not to spare your life. You are not so far above me, lethallan."

"That's true enough," Velanna says, but her tone is still clipped, still curt, "But my mistakes didn't threaten to destroy the world."

"I did what I always do," he says, "I make the difficult choices. You don't have to agree with them. You don't even have to like me. But I will not be disrespected. I am not a child."

No, he isn't.

But this is terrible. 

How do they come back from it?

"I thought we'd have more time," he continues, and he checks his equipment, secures his scabbards to his back and his bedroll, "It took Dirthamen days to wrestle control away from Merrill. I thought the Dread Wolf would be stronger." He should have been. Truly. 

Velanna stares at him for a long moment before she looks away. 

"Well?" Velanna asks, "Which one of you---"

"Yeah, not me," Sera says. 

Zevran sighs. He puts his bedroll away and stands up, stretches. And he looks every bit as weary as she feels. 

"Yes, yes, it will have to be me," he says, "Of course. The moment I step away, everything falls apart. It is always the same."

"What can I say?" Mahariel asks, "I am foolish without you."

"You are foolish with me," Zevran says, "And you must try harder not to be."

It hurts. Everything hurts. The rest of them will have to go to the Anderfels. They will have to hope he doesn't send people to intercept them. They'll have to hope he told them the truth about the orb. They could still find nothing. He could have been wrong. 

Merrill shrinks away when Mahariel looks at her. 

"Merrill---" he says.

"No," she says, "Don't ask. I can't. I'm not---you already know where it is. I showed---Dirtha---he showed you. You don't need my help."

"Are you sure?" he asks. He tries to get her to look at him, to answer him.

But Sera puts herself between them and he stops. 

"She said no," Sera says, "Don't push her. Besides, you have your team. Get on with it already."

So he looks at Lavellan and it's as if Sera hasn't said a word.

"We have room for one more, lethallan," he says.

She does not return his smile. 

"Absolutely not," Lavellan says. She takes another drink and then passes it back to Merrill. Dirthamen would expect her to go with them. He is power mad so he would believe she is the same. And if she is the same, she would want Elgar'nan's power. He was the greatest of the gods. The strongest. And he was mad. 

She can't trust Mahariel with her life. She won't.

_I will peel Mahariel like a grape._ She can hear Dirthamen's voice still. _Or dear, sweet little Merrill._

_And the grey warden...Velanna._

She has no doubts. He will do it. He will kill them all, one by one, if he catches them. And it is likely, he will catch them.

Sera sits and stirs the fire. Merrill leans against her, just a little. Fenris chucks a rock into the trees and looks for another one. And Morrigan walks away---she gives herself enough distance to change and then she does. The ripple of scales is beautiful. 

It all feels so sudden. Too soon.

She doesn't really want them to go.

She doesn't want them to die. 

"He said he'll kill Velanna first," she says, "He's still angry about getting caught off guard."

Velanna's breath rushes out. She deflates a little. Lavellan sees the first hint of real worry on her face.

"Well, then," she says, "I suppose that's to be expected." She takes one of the supply bags with her. She climbs onto Morrigan's back. And Zevran follows. And then Mahariel. But none of them say anything else. Dirthamen is horrifying and they are pretending his threats are meaningless. But they are not meaningless. 

"Be careful," Merrill says, and finally, she spares Mahariel a glance. She tries to smile. She fails. 

"Dareth shiral," Lavellan says. She steadies her voice. If they can pretend, she can pretend. Everything will be fine. 

Lies, she thinks. 

"Dareth shiral," Velanna says, and Mahariel echoes it.

And then Morrigan is propelling herself skyward. They are gone and the rest of them are alone.

"Dareth sh-pfft," Sera says, "Pfft."


	65. In the Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She used to love the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning: There is no sexual assault, but by the end of the Fade section, the threat of it is hanging there.

She wishes they had horses because it feels like they have been walking forever. Maybe they have.

And it is much to early to be getting dark.

She doesn't worry until she feels the first drop of rain on her neck. She looks up and the sun is slipping behind the clouds. The sky is bright and dark at the same time and there is a sudden chill in the air. Then it isn't bright at all. it's just dark. She can tell she's going to end the day miserable.

Another drop strikes her forehead. 

And then it is pouring.

"Venhedis," Fenris says.

"What's a little rain?" Merrill asks, "It's quite nice actually."

She is insane. It's cold and wet and all of them are wearing armor. The dirt road will be mud before they've gone another two feet, and that's if they're lucky. They could stop, wait it out in one of the houses, but she does not feel like dragging another corpse out into the fresh air. 

The settlement is too small to be on any of the maps---the only road is hard packed dirt and it is unlikely anyone has come this way in a while. It is unlikely anyone survived to bury the dead. There will be corpses. They will have more graves to dig.

Water rolls down her neck and into her armor. She is drenched. They are all drenched. And she is right. She'll end the day miserable, probably snapping at someone. 

Thunder rumbles. Lightning splits the sky.

"Kaffas," Fenris mutters, "Stop. We can't keep going."

"It's just a bit of thunder and lightning," Merrill says.

"And I'm carrying a large metal sword," he says. There is another jagged streak of lightning and he's sprinting to the closest house. 

Sera grabs Merrill's hand and pulls her along after him. Once again, Lavellan is left to catch up. 

The door sticks when she tries to open it. She has to pull, really pull, and she almost falls on her ass in the mud. 

Inside, the air is musty, it's stale. The house has been abandoned for some time, the windows sealed up tight. There is dust on every surface and cobwebs in every corner. But it is dry and that is all that matters. Merrill summons a wisp. it bobs in a circle around her head, casting strange shadows. 

There is dry wood in the fireplace. It doesn't take much to coax it to burn. She hopes the chimney is clear because they are going to have a mess on their hands if it isn't. 

They find no bodies for once. Not downstairs or upstairs. There is nothing to bury. And how would they have managed anyway? The ground is mud and water is pooling in the low places. It would not be an easy thing to dig a hole, not even a shallow one. 

"What a waste," Fenris says, "We were making good time." He is lying to himself if he really believes that. They are exhausted. Merrill and Lavellan were stumbling over their own feet. She doubts Sera and Fenris were truly doing much better. 

"No need to be in such a hurry," Sera says, "It's just more walking. And more walking. And more walking. It'll be there when the rain stops." She is right. The walking is endless. 

He sighs as if Sera is too stupid to understand. He fiddles with the clutter on the table, little broken pieces of dolls and old rags and dirty plates. Whoever lived here was either caught in the middle of something or was just a terrible housekeeper. And why would they have needed any of this? Unless they were a doll maker, she sees no reason for it.

"I don't like it," Fenris says.

"Well suck it up because I'm tired of walking. This is nice," Sera says, "I We can sit down for once in a proper chairs. Maybe pretend things aren't upside down and inside out, yeah?"

Fenris' response is an unintelligible grunt.

So much for that, then. She is still wet and cold, and if they are going to spend the rest of the evening arguing about walking, she is going to set one or both of them on fire. Maybe she should do it anyway. It would be a break in the monotony. At least. It would be something new to talk about. 

Sera laughs and strips down to her underclothes. It's a shirt and pants but it's enough to make Merrill's cheeks turn pink.

"Much better," Sera says. She leaves her armor by the fireplace to dry.

She eyes the rest of them.

"No, seriously? You want to sit around in wet armor?" she asks.

She has a point. Lavellan's armor is that damned sentinel armor. It's bad enough as it is, but with the water, she feels like she has been stuffed into a much smaller woman's shirt and trousers. She fumbles with the clasps, her fingers slipping, but finally, the pieces start to come free. 

She sets them beside Sera's and then so does Fenris. He clears a place on the table for his sword. 

Merrill drapes her robe over the back of a chair. She fidgets and looks at the ceiling and tries to pretend she isn't uncomfortable. Lavellan isn't much better. They are in a stranger's home in the middle of a storm. A dangerous ancient elf is hunting them. They could be caught literally with their pants down. 

It is almost begging things to get worse. But can it? Should she even wonder?

But Sera and Fenris don't seem bothered. Sera dusts off a chairs and sit near the fire and Fenris finds a spot on the floor. It is so quiet, it is almost painful. She wants to fill the silence. She wants to say something, anything, but she can't think of any happy stories. There is just death and the Inquisition and the Dread Wolf. She very much doubts they want to hear stories about Solas. She doubts they want to here her excuses. 

Thunder claps over head, almost directly above. The rain comes down harder. And the wind rushes through the cracks in the walls. It makes the fire sputter. It makes standing in her dry-ish underclothes seem less appealing than marching in the rain in full armor. 

There is a blanket rumpled in the corner of the room. She shakes it out and wraps herself in it. She sits on the floor with her back to the wall. The blanket is a bit threadbare. It is patched and worn. It is an improvement, but not by much.

She wonders how long the storm will last.

Merrill hasn't moved. She is still standing in the same place, shifting, fidgeting. Nervous. She inches toward the stairs and then sits, but she doesn't look comfortable. Lavellan doesn't think the storm is what's bothering her---neither the lightning nor the thunder makes her flinch.

"Are you alright?" Lavellan asks.

And then her cheeks are even pinker than they were.

"Yes! Fine. It's all---yes," she says, and she sits a little straighter. She wraps her arms around her middle. She looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her.

"Are you cold?" she asks, "There were more blankets upstairs." She thinks there were. There was a bedroom, a place to sleep. 

"Oh yes, I suppose that would be---maybe," Merrill says, she stands again, "I guess I could. Sera, will you---do you think you'd mind---" She stares at her feet and digs her toes into the gaps between the floorboards. 

"What? Give you a hand?" Sera asks, grinning. 

"Yes, that. If you don't mind. Maybe."

Sera laughs and then she's chasing her up the stairs. The wooden slats creak and Lavellan is struck by how thin the ceiling must be. She can hear every move they make. She can hear the muffled laughter as they search for---.

Oh.

They are not looking for blankets.

She is tempted to go into one of the other houses. Give them some sense of privacy. She doesn't think she would be lucky enough to find another empty house though, and musty air is preferred to the sickly sweet stench of old rot, of death. 

Fenris shuts his eyes and seems to doze.

She does the same. She tries to, but she can not slow her thoughts. Dirthamen, Mahariel---it nags at her. They were safer when it was just Solas chasing them. He is terrible and impossible but he is somewhat predictable. He even means well most of the time. 

Dirthamen doesn't.

She sighs. 

"What is it?" Fenris asks, sounding weary---annoyed. It's the same tone Keeper Deshanna took when she tired of answering ridiculous questions. But maybe he's only frustrated about the storm. Stopping early has put him in a mood. This is not because her presence is disturbing him. 

"Nothing important," she says. Don't push, she thinks, please.

"If it's nothing important, why are you making so much noise?" he asks.

Well, then. 

She can't think for a moment, because he isn't making any sense. She is not making noise. 

"I'm not making noise," she snaps, because she isn't. She is sitting quietly and thinking. 

He snorts. He closes his eyes again. He looks much too relaxed to have that tone of voice.

"A dragon would be quieter," he says. 

She bristles. She is not any louder than the storm or Sera and Merrill. She doesn't know where this is coming from.

It was just one sigh. Just one careless breath.

"My apologies. I didn't realize my breathing would disturb you," she says. Her voice is tight, strained, and she can't soften it. 

"If that was normal breathing you should drink a health potion," he says.

She doesn't know why he's trying to pick a fight, but he'll have to try harder. She is not in the mood for one. She can ignore him. 

She angles away and tries to think about better things. She tries to conjure happy memories---of Dorian and Cole, of Cassandra. The da'len chasing each other around the aravels. Her first kiss in the Fade---but that leads to unpleasant musings. It leads to Solas and Dirthamen and she just can't right now. She steers her thoughts to Wicked Grace and Josephine. And that almost helps. 

She has just started to nod off when Fenris takes a loud, deep breath. She is going to throw it in his face, but he doesn't give her the chance.

"We've all fallen for one of Mahariel's schemes. Don't blame yourself."

"I don't," she says, "I wasn't." Not this time. She was working up to it though. All of this could have been avoided.

"You do," he says, opening his eyes again, "You are. It's annoying."

"Just go to sleep," she snaps. Why won't he let it be? She was falling asleep. She is not annoying.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder," she says. Is he smirking? If she didn't know better, she would swear he is. There is nothing good to throw. 

"There's only so much I can do," he says.

She tries to breathe but she is angry. It isn't funny. Why is he picking at her? More importantly, why is she sitting here, listening to it? She gets up. It is awkward trying to keep the blanket wrapped tight around her, but she manages. 

"Oh, sit down," he mutters, and his tone is sharper, "I was kidding." No. He wasn't. 

"Don't be ridiculous. You wanted quiet," she says, "You can have it." She trips over the blanket, catches herself, but it is too late. He sees. He laughs.

She can feel herself blushing. 

This is stupid, she thinks. So she sits where she can't see him. She shuts her eyes and pretends sleep will come easily. 

 

She doesn't realize this isn't Solas at first. She forgets because this is the Fade. This is the rotunda in Skyhold again, the way it was when they were happy. When he was a lie. 

She misses him. She does. 

His smile is the same. Small. Faintly amused. Infectious. When he looks at her like this, it is hard not to smile back. 

"Hello, Ellana," he says, his voice soft, warm...welcoming. But something is different. She can feel it. 

She almost touches his cheek but he catches her wrist. He kisses her palm. He laughs.

"What would he think if he could see you now?" he asks, "How quickly you forget him."

And then she remembers. She looks at him and she can't pull away fast enough. He is Dirthamen and this is more than an innocent dream. His eyes are darker than Solas' eyes, they are not so pale they are colorless. That's the difference. 

They are almost black. 

"This is a dream," she says, "I think he'd understand." But it is none of his business. Not Solas and not Dirthamen. Not anyone. And she owes neither of them any consideration. If she wants to make a fool of herself in a dream, that is her right.

"You'll never know," he says.

She claps her lips shut because what would be the point? He studies the walls, the room. He looks at the paintings with mild interest---paintings she has long since burned. They only exist here now, only in her memories. He keeps his hands clasped in front of him as he circles.

"Tarasyl'an Te'las," he says at last, and he stops, "Of course. These are his paintings. I recognize the style but not the subject." His mouth twists as if it is distasteful, ugly. He is only interested in the puzzle of what they mean. 

She is not inclined to explain.

"Why are you here?" she asks.

"Am I not welcome?"

"No," she says, "You are not." She should not be this brave. She knows that, but seeing Solas like this is confusing. She doesn't know how to respond. She doesn't know how to feel. 

The smile slips off his face and she is left staring into the darkness of his eyes. His face twists as Solas' would, but somehow, he looks different. It is unsettling at best. That face. She wishes he'd change it. She would rather talk to him while he's wearing his own. 

"You are an ungrateful, sniveling thing," he says. 

But really, what has he done that he should expect her to be grateful? 

"So I've been told," she says. Abelas, she thinks. He was always rushing to defend Solas' honor.

"By your betters," he continues, "Do not be flippant. You are nothing." It should not sting coming from him, but it does. It is still Solas' face, his voice. And her doubts. 

How pitiful and small she looks to the ancients. Still so broken. And Dirthamen is not the first to tell her so. He will not be the last.

"Then why are you here?" she repeats. What is it about the Evanuris that draws them to her dreams? Are they really that bored that they have nothing better to do than trouble her?

"I am here because I choose to be," he says, and his lips are pressed thin, his brow furrowed. He sounds a little uncertain and maybe a little angry that he is uncertain.

"Then perhaps you should choose to be elsewhere," she says. Please, she thinks. 

Anger has always made her reckless. Why should now be any different? He looks down at her and all she can see is disgust. She is nothing. Yes, she thinks, always nothing.

"His actions have caused far more damage than I realized," he says, "It seems even the most basic dregs of common sense have been bred out of your kind. It is a shame."

She doesn't care, and no doubt, it shows on her face. She has exhausted her patience for the subject and his company. He has so much power. How long will it be before he starts enslaving the survivors? Has he already started? What new crimes has he committed while wearing Solas' face? Gods. 

"I have gifted you with valuable knowledge. Do not make me regret it," he continues. Such arrogance. Such disdain. She can not understand it. He is a creature born of Elvhenan. This is what Solas thought of when he thought of the People. Not her. Not Sera. Not Dorian. Not any of them. He thought of people like Dirthamen. He thought of people like Abelas.

How, she wonders, how is this better?

"Go away," she says, "Please. I don't want you here."

But the please makes him smile again. It smooths the edges of his anger and she is not sure it is an improvement. No. She knows it isn't. He drifts too close and she has to step back. He looks like he's going to touch her, and that, she just can not bear.

"No, da'len," he says, "I won't."

She wants to wander Skyhold alone and in silence. 

"The Dread Wolf is being punished," he continues, and his gaze shifts back to the murals for a moment, "That is what you wanted, and yet, somehow, you are unsatisfied."

It wasn't about punishment. It was about justice. But from the way his lip curls into a snarl when he says it, she doubts Solas' treatment is either fair or impartial. Or suitable. He is the kind to use torture. 

She doesn't want to know what he's doing to him. Even if he deserves it. Even then.

Dirthamen frightens her in a way Solas never did.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are still searching for the foci," he says, and then he's looking through her again, coming too close, "Stop. You have more power than any such as yourself should hope to have."

Of course.

"I wouldn't take more power if you begged me," she says, "But I will take peace and quiet."

She tries not to flinch when he touches her, but she is not that strong. He laughs and brushes the back of his hand against her cheek. 

"Ungrateful and insolent," he says, "And ugly. You are an ugly little thing, too ugly even for manual labor. Even in Arlathan's golden age, it is likely you would have been offered up as a sacrifice. I can't imagine what he sees in you." 

She tries to leave him in the rotunda, but when she steps outside, the Fade shifts her back in. When she tries to force distance between them, it snaps her back. 

He thinks this is amusing. Clearly. He is laughing, just the way Solas' People laughed at her. Poor, pitiful thing. Poor, pathetic broken fool. 

"You can't even do the simplest of things," he says.

"I can put you in a sword," she says, "I can do that at least."

He laughs until he cries.

"Perhaps that is what he saw in you," he says, "Your ignorance is truly stunning." And then he's crowding her, pushing her up against the wall, his hands at her wrists. His grip is too tight and she can feel it. He is hurting her and he is enjoying it.

"I may find a use for you, yet," he whispers. He kisses her cheek. 

She wants to scream, but the sound won't come. He is horrible. 

 

It is still raining when she wakes, but the worst of it has passed. There is no more thunder. There is no lightning. Just the quiet patter of raindrops. It is slowing, petering out. It won't be long before the sun is shining again.

She is still angry. She can't get his voice out of her head, his words, his horrible laughter. She can't rub away the feel of his hands around her wrists. She almost expects to see bruises. 

Fenris looks like he wants to ask how she slept but thinks better of it. He just sort of nods at her and moves about his business and she is glad. She doesn't want to talk about it. Any of it.

She should eat something, but she doesn't want to eat anything. She wants to look through the cupboards for lonely bottles of wine instead. She wants to drink until she can't think. She wants to break something. 

Sera comes downstairs, bleary eyed, with Merrill not far behind. Lavellan sees the looks they give Fenris and then her, the damn flickers of concern and uncertainty, and it makes her even angrier. There is nothing wrong. There is nothing to talk about. 

She feels sick. She doesn't want to feel sick. 

There are horses outside. They are saddled and bridled, but they have no riders. There are no footprints in the mud. She doubts anyone is alive to look for them.

It is another gift.

And she wonders because it has been a while since the last. 

Horses. Really, Cole. 

She would hug him if he would let her, because this is wonderful. But now she is missing Griffin, because he is her horse. Cole has spirited him away and replaced him and how can he? Griffin is irreplaceable. 

Maybe if she asks, he'll find a spell to keep people out of her dreams. It would be better than horses. 

"Anderfel coursers," Fenris says, his voice is gruff but it does nothing to hide the almost smile on his lips, "If this is the work of your damned spirit friend, he could have done much worse." He pats one of them on the shoulder. It turns, nudges his side as if it expects to find treats. It huffs a little, disappointed, when it finds nothing but armor. It tries to maneuver his hand to its head, to the spot between its eyes. When he finally complies, it flicks its ear and shuts its eyes and makes a happy sound.

The horses are well fed and beautiful. She can't count their ribs. Someone has been taking care of them, and for a while now. She hopes Cole hasn't stolen them. 

Merrill hums and she has not done that in quite a while. She runs her hands along the back of the horse closest to her. Most of its body is white but its legs are spotted with brown. She has chosen well because it seems even tempered, gentle. It is the calmest out of all of them.

Sera's horse is more red than brown and it is a biter. Fenris gets too close and it nearly takes a chunk out of his ass. It flicks its tail at him when he scrambles out of the way. If a horse could laugh this is what it would look like, she thinks.

And Lavellan's horse is brown with a black mane and white legs. It doesn't seem terribly interested in making friends but it is pleasant enough. It is not Griffin but it will do. 

She doesn't want to think about Dirthamen.

She doesn't want to think about Solas.

She doesn't want to think about anything at all.


	66. It Walks, It Hums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something wrong in Perendale.

The gate is open and spattered with old blood and she can smell _them_. The undead have taken Perendale. 

The horses want to run. They won't come any closer. 

"Well, so much for a hot meal and a clean bed," Fenris says.

"You had a hot meal this morning," Lavellan says, "I should know. I cooked." If she could really call it cooking. Bland, boiled meat with no salt and no spices and no vegetables. It was horrible and tasteless but no one could say it wasn't hot.

He makes a face. She doesn't think it's all because of the smell.

There is a corpse close to the entrance, stumbling and dragging a sword behind it. It has the look of a town guardsman but the armor hangs loose on a frame that is little more than bones and dried, leathery skin. In a matter of moments, it will notice them. It will come out swinging.

"Yes, right," Fenris says, "That. It was food. Technically."

Sera snorts.

But she can't be insulted. It was terrible. She was looking forward to civilization. She was hoping to replenish their supplies and eat something that wasn't boiled in a pot over a camp fire. For a change.

"I miss bread," Merrill says, "And cheese. Do you remember cheese?"

"Anything would be nice right about now," Sera says, "If I never eat another rabbit again, it'll still be too soon. Ugh."

She can't disagree. And Merrill was right. There was cheese once. And bread. And it was lovely. 

"There could still be supplies we could scavenge," she says. But it would be dangerous. Perendale could be a problem. They have no way of knowing how many creatures are here. They have no way of knowing if it will be too much for them.

They can't keep going on as they are, though. They have all lost weight they couldn't afford to lose.

The undead guard shuffles a bit. She sees the moment it notices them. She sees its body jerk. She hears the scrape of the sword on the cobblestone, the hiss of air through desiccated lungs. And then its lumbering toward them.

There are more behind it, turning at their brother's alarm. 

The horses rear up, afraid. Terrified.

"Well we have no choice now," Fenris says as he dismounts. 

Pull of the Abyss drags them back as he draws his sword and Sera draws her bow. Merrill traps the rest in vines, holding them, when Lavellan's spell wears off. 

Fenris dispatches those before more can come.

But more do come. They charge out of the gate, swords raised, or, if they have no weapons, hands raised. They fight and they fight and they fight.

Merrill burns through the last of their lyrium potions and still more come. Lavellan thinks, if she could have risked her fire spells, they might have ended it by now, but if there's one thing she has learned about the undead, it's that fire turns walking corpses into walking, burning corpses. It doesn't stop them any faster than any other spell. She can make due with rift magic. She can make do.

The horses tremble. She can feel their terror. They are fighting not to run, training. They are almost at the limit for what they can stand. 

Perhaps Perendale wasn't her best idea.

But really, their options were limited.

"I think we're getting somewhere," Sera says, "No, really. I can see the street." As if that really means anything.

"Yes, well good for you," Fenris says, "You're not in the thick of it."

"I can be if it'll untwist your bits," she says, and then she puts her bow away. She unsheathes her daggers and she is moving, faster than Fenris, faster than the undead. They notice her after they're falling. They notice her after it's too late.

Merrill uses her staff. She has run out of mana.

"Careful," she says, "I can't heal you if---I don't have---just don't get hurt too badly. Please."

Sera isn't listening. She's thinning the crowd around Fenris while he tries to catch his breath. Lavellan tries pull of the abyss again. And then, the road is clear. There are no more monsters lumbering toward them. They have won. For now, at least. She isn't convinced there won't be more further in.

Fenris slumps. He wipes the sweat from his brow and he looks like he needs to sit. Sera is better but not by much. And Merrill is cheering. For someone who has exhausted her mana reserves, she has far too much energy.

The horses are not happy. They still won't let themselves be lead into the city. They hold back. They watch. 

"I suppose I could stay with them," Merrill says.

"By yourself? How about no," Sera says. 

"I'll stay," Fenris says, still out of breath, "I need a minute anyway."

Sera is skeptical.

"Yeah, still no. We're not splitting up," she says,"That's how they always get you."

But Fenris is already limping into the shade. He sits, or rather, he sprawls back, laying in the grass.

"Do what you want. I'm not moving," he says. And Merrill sits beside him, her horse nudging her shoulder, nibbling at the fringe along her collar.

Waiting would be wiser, Lavellan thinks, but she doesn't want to wait. The city is quiet and the air smells terrible. The sooner they finish the sooner they can leave. 

She would probably be alright on her own, she thinks.

She would probably prefer being alone. For a little while. There is something wrong with Perendale. Maybe it would be better to move on. They can survive on wild game even if it is unpleasant.

Sera smacks the back of Lavellan's head.

"No," she says, "We're not going in yet. You sit."

She rubs the back of her head. No one will ever accuse Sera of being a mind reader. There is an inn just beyond the gate. There are houses. At the very least, they could search the buildings closest. IF anything happened, they'd still be able to run.

But there is also old carnage in the streets. There are overturned carts and dead horses. There are broken fences and bones. Her first instinct was to go on in alone, but her first instincts have been wrong so often as of late. 

She listened to Mahariel. She listened even when Sera and Fenris and even Velanna cautioned her against it. They have not been wrong yet, but she has. She has been wrong so many times.

Her shoulders sag.

Maybe she should try listening to someone else for a change.

Sera plops down in front of Merrill, and Lavellan forces herself to follow. She sits beside her, and stares into the city. The bodies of the undead they dispatched are many. They are piled high around the opening. They will have to be cleared away before anyone can pass---she is not climbing over them. She is not that desperate. 

The gate is mostly metal and stone. The wooden parts will burn but she doesn't think the fire would spread into the city.

She casts wall of fire and then immolate to burn the bodies. She might as well while they wait. It does nothing to chase the stench of rot from the air.

 

But Perendale is a disappointment after all.

Despite the protests, they split up. Merrill spots an apothecary's store and then she's off, Sera close at her heels. If there's a chance they can replenish their potions---well. 

Lavellan can't fault her. She stays close to the gate. She steers clear of the silver mines. They won't find food there. But the inn is a good choice, and if there's still time after, the houses. 

Fenris follows, still limping, and grumbling.

"You don't have to come along if you're hurting," she says, "Sit down."

"No," he says.

She eyes him critically. He should be off his feet but he is soldiering through unnecessarily. They have already cleared most of the dead from the streets, any more she finds will be easily dispatched. There can't be many left inside or they would have come charging out by now. The dead always do.

"I said no," he says, "Knowing you, you'll find a dragon's nest and bring the whole brood down on us. And Sera will shoot me."

"I'm not that unlucky," she says.

He arches an eyebrow.

"I'm not," she says.

"I'll be fine," he says and she is annoyed. He is too stubborn for his own good.

There are stragglers in the inn. Not many but a few. Fenris shoots her a look that is meant to be an I told you so. But she takes great joy in ignoring it. A couple of undead stuck in a corner are not the same as a nest of dragons.

She is not so inept she needs help with three walking corpses. 

"Don't look at me like that," she says.

"This is why we shouldn't split up."

"You don't have to be afraid," she says, thinking of Dorian, "I'm here. I'll protect you."

The look he gives her frightening. He is not amused. She is not funny.

But she is amused. She would laugh but there are too many things he could throw at her and his aim is too good. He wouldn't miss.

And wouldn't that be something? Sylaise's magic lost forever because someone threw an old tankard at her head. Mahariel would probably have kittens.

They find wine and salt and a few cheese wheels with thick enough rinds they were able to withstand the devastation. Everything else is either spoiled or smashed or, oddly enough, burned. There are so many scorched places in the city. Mostly up the road, toward the silver mines. She thinks it was probably just a mage, making their last stand. 

A shame. So many lives lost. 

They don't find much else in the houses. Just the cheese and the wine and salt. It is what she expected, but still, she is disappointed.

"It could be worse," Fenris says.

"I know," she says, but she knows how she sounds.

Merrill's talk of bread had gotten her hopes up, but the only flour is moldy and, worse, bloody. None of it is usable. There is no yeast. There will be no bread. 

"Boiled rabbit isn't the worst thing," he says, "The salt will help." And he tries to smile. He tries to make her feel better about the disastrous breakfast. It is kind of him.

But she knows. Boiled rabbit is still terrible. Roasted rabbit is still terrible. They are all sick to death of damn rabbit meat.

Merrill and Sera haven't had much luck either. There is a bit of lyrium but that is all. Most of the other potions have turned and separated. They're unusable. And it is getting dark. It is too late to continue the search, they will have to try again tomorrow.

But she doesn't want to try again tomorrow. She can't shake the feeling of wrongness. Something is off. Something is coming. But she is being paranoid. They find only the undead and they are easily managed. 

When the last of the stragglers are cleared out, finally, finally the horses can be coaxed into the city. They lead them into the blacksmith shop because it is the only place big enough for all of them and it has suffered the least amount of damage. The door still locks and bolts securely, and the windows are few enough they can be easily boarded up. She almost feels safe. Almost. 

There's even a small supply of hay and oats to keep the horses calm and satisfied. 

Still, she doesn't truly feel at ease. It is quiet but it is too quiet. Every sound she hears, she expects something to come charging at them. Something caused the undead to rise in the city. It wasn't just the fall of the Veil. Whatever it was could still be here. It could be waiting.

She can't stop thinking about the mines. There wasn't time to check and the tunnels run deep into the earth. There could be something there. Something...

But they can't leave yet. They have to stay. They need supplies. 

The wine is too much temptation.

She doesn't know how she manages to fall asleep.

 

Dirthamen is sullen and quiet and he looks less like Solas and more like someone else. It should be a relief but his silence is unsettling. 

His nose is longer than Solas' today, not much, but it is noticeable. He's taller too, not by much, but it is noticeable. His lips are thinner and he is not as pale. There is no scar in his forehead or dimple in his chin. His jaw is a little wider, and he has hair. Dark, long hair. He looks like Solas but also like a stranger. 

He sits by Keeper Deshanna's aravel and watches everything.

She feels like she's being scrutinized, picked apart, deconstructed. Judged.

When she asks what he wants, he won't tell her. He sits there and he only looks at her when she talks to him. His expression is so dark. She is nervous.

But finally, he speaks.

"Where is your vallaslin?" he asks.

"Gone," she says, "Why?"

"Who did you belong to?" he ask, "Show me." He has a Tone again, and that is bad enough. But who does she belong to? She wants to set him on fire.

"No one and no," she says, "Ask Solas. He removed them. I'm sure he remembers." She has never been more glad she let Solas take her vallaslin than she is now. 

He scowls. The face he makes is so ugly. Setting him on fire would be an improvement.

"I'm asking you," he says. He stands. He walks around the camp, white tulips springing up behind him, with every step he takes. White tulips. Really. The Fade is even stranger with him than with Solas. She hadn't thought it was possible. 

"That's unfortunate for you because I don't feel like telling you anything," she says, "Go away." Could she burn him in the Fade? Would it even work?

And she regrets talking to him at all. It would have been better to let him sit and sulk in silence. At least then, she wouldn't have to hear his voice. Solas' voice.

The white tulips are ridiculous. She wonders why he would choose that. Why would he manipulate the Fade that way? Flowers where he walks. It's like a ridiculous fable. Who is he trying to impress? 

The camp melts away slowly. The people dissolve, then the aravels, then the trees, and finally the camp fire. The world is a gray mist and uneven stones and chilled winds. But the tulips remain, swaying around his ankles.

"Don't be so difficult. I'll find out eventually," he says, "If they were my vallaslin---" 

"They were mine and this is not Arlathan. There are no slaves. You aren't owed anything," she says, "We should have left you trapped in the Deep Roads."

"But you didn't," he says, "And now I'm here and you are wrong. I am owed something. The Dread Wolf stole my life, my lands, my brother---he stole everything. I will have it all back."

The ice in his voice makes her shiver.

"Where is Falon'Din?" he continues.

He will not like her answer and she doubts he will be as easily convinced as Solas was. Wherever Cole is, she hopes it's far, far from his reach. She hopes he's safe. She hopes he will never be found.

"I wouldn't tell you if I knew," she says, "Somewhere safe, I imagine."

She is glad he keeps his distance. She doesn't want him to touch her. 

"Why do you keep coming here?" she asks, "I am nothing, remember? This serves no purpose."

He does not like that. He doesn't. 

"I decide whether it serves a purpose and I will go where I will," he says, "You are not my equal. I will not listen to---"

"Won't you?" she asks, "You're listening right now."

The sky darkens. The wind picks up, tearing the poor tulips from their stems. They grow back almost instantly only to tear away again. Over and over. Parlor tricks. She is not frightened by a Fade storm. She is not frightened by wind. But his face. It is terrifying in this light. How did Merrill stand it? Being trapped with him in her head.

"Yes, I suppose that's true," he says, "As stupid as you are, you were bound to get one thing right. Very well. It amuses me to listen, so I listen. You are a strange thing."

A thing, of course. She is not a person. His kind are always so eager to remind her.

If she is just a thing, what does that say about him? He is standing here, talking to her. He may as well be chatting with a tree or a blade of grass. Oh the mighty Evanuris, caught conversing with the landscape. What would Andruil and the rest of the bastards think? 

"Was it Mythal?" he asks, "Mother was always lax when it came to beating the attitude out of her followers." It takes her a minute to realize he's gong back to the mystery of her vallaslin. As if she will slip up and tell him. No.

"My people aren't slaves and the vallaslin aren't slave markings," she says.

"They are. They will always be," he says, "Were they Falon'Din's? Or were they mine? Is that why you're so afraid all of a sudden?"

As if she needs a reason to be afraid. 

"Why are you so eager to know?" she asks.

"You are afraid," he says.

His smile isn't a smile. It is cold and it is cruel and it reminds her of a snake slowly stretching open its jaws. She wishes she was a somniari because it would have been satisfying to eject him, forcibly, from her dreams. She wonders if he would throw a tantrum, if he would throw things and cry. Or maybe she is now. Maybe she can cast him out with Sylaise's magic. Maybe. 

She is going to have to ask to be woken up every few hours until she finds out. To avoid these little talks. 

"If you're so curious, ask Solas," she says, and there a strange flicker of something in his eyes.

It hits her.

"He won't tell you," she says, "You can't force him."

He recoils as if she just struck him. She wants to laugh. She is going to. She can feel it bubbling up inside her.

"In time, he will tell me what I want to know," he says, "They always do."

She hears the lie. He is uncertain. He is furious. Solas is still in there, still fighting him. He won't tell him anything. 

"You're going to lose control," she says, "He's going to drive you out. You're the one who's afraid."

His hands are fists at his sides, his shoulders too tense. The look on his face is murderous and she wonders if he'll strike her. He looks like he wants to. He's considering it.

"The Dread Wolf has already lost," he says.

But he hasn't. 

"You should stay away from me," she says, "Because I pulled you out of Merrill once, without his help. Imagine what will happen if you face me while he's still fighting you. I'll put you in something much worse than a sword. Stop troubling my dreams."

He narrows his eyes.

"Do not challenge me, da'len," he says, his voice low, threatening.

"It's a threat, not a challenge," she says, "And I am not a child. Get out of my dream."

"I am going to enjoy punishing you," he says, "You will beg for mercy and you will find none. You will break while he watches, trapped inside this body." No. He is wrong.

He is going to say more, but suddenly, she is awake and Merrill is shaking her. Something is battering the door and the horses are pushing, shoving, knocking things aside in their terror. They want to get away. They need to. But there isn't enough room. They are trapped.

"What is it?" she asks.

But no one answers her.

There is a light outside the door, orange like fire. 

The horses go quiet. They stop struggling. And Merrill, Sera, and Fenris go quiet as well. They stand and stare at the door and it is eerie. They won't speak. They won't acknowledge her.

Lavellan casts barrier around everything. Something is wrong.

"Merrill?" she asks, and Merrill's eyes are wide and blank. So are Sera's. So are Fenris'.

The door splinters but no one moves. The orange light spills through the cracks. Still no one answers her. 

"Who's out there?" she asks, "What do you want?"

She doesn't think they'll answer her, but there is a hum. There is the press of a mind against hers. It hits her barrier and then it hits the barrier Merrill created for her to keep Solas out of her thoughts. Whatever the thing is, whoever it is, she can feel a spike of its frustration.

The hum gets louder. The cracks in the door widen, pieces break off and fall to the floor. The thing looks at her through the hole. It is beautiful. 

Delicate features, high cheek bones, and it is made of fire. It is like a rage demon but different. Smaller. It is like a desire demon but elemental. Fire and desire melded together. It is like some kind of siren.

The horses should be screaming right now. 

Why hasn't she been affected? Is it just Merrill's spell? She can't even remember what it was or how to cast it. She can't use it to break Sera and Merrill and Fenris out of this trance. 

The door burns. 

Behind the strange creature, she sees more undead. Not many, but enough they could be a problem if her friends don't come back to themselves. 

She wishes Velanna was here. Her strange ice spell would have come in handy.

"I asked you a question," Lavellan says, "What do you want?"

It doesn't answer. It tries to rush her. It tries to wrap its fiery arms around her and---she doesn't know what it intends. It rebounds off her barrier and then tries again. It puffs smoke from its mouth, it hisses. Angry.

She hits it with stonefist. She knocks it back and then the undead are charging.

She curses. She casts pull of the abyss again, to buy her time.

"Snap out of it, Merrill," she says, and she shoves her.

But Merrill doesn't hear her. She doesn't move. None of them do.

It is a bad idea, she knows, but she is panicking. Her heart races. Her stomach churns. She hits the undead with wall of fire and then immolate and they burn. The fire creature doesn't though. It steps through the flames and it feels like it's laughing at her. 

"What are you?" she asks, "What do you want?"

Some kind of spirit, demon, something---something with an affinity for the dead and a hatred for the living. Jealousy maybe. A splinter of rage perhaps. Or another broken spirit of compassion. The thing won't tell her. 

It burns her.

It actually does.

And that makes her angry. 

She tries winter's grasp. She expects to have to hit it again, but the first try, it snuffs out. The flame dies. It dies. 

Merrill stumbles against her. The horses startle. Fenris and Sera move. 

"What happened?" Fenris asks.

"There was something at the door," Merrill says, "And then...nothing. I can't remember."

There is no time to explain because the undead are still coming. Perendale was a terrible idea. 

She burns more of them because it is always her first choice. She is too tired to plan and strategize. Fire. Pull of the abyss. Fire. Pull of the Abyss. And Sera knocks them back with her arrows. Merrill hangs even further back and pretends she's not cutting her palm. 

The blood and her magic rushes through---it shrivels them. It pulls them in on themselves. It crushes them. And one of them bursts. Bone shards and leathery guts splatter the walls, everything.

Their numbers thin and then Fenris is cutting through the last of them. 

But they can hear more in the distance. They are coming from the mines. They are underground. Deep in the tunnels. They are coming. They are coming. 

They grab everything they can and they ride out of the city. Perendale is not safe. She doesn't have to stay another night to know there is something else behind the attack. Something that is too dangerous to handle now, with their supplies as low as they are.

They don't slow until they clear the gate. Only then do the questions resume. 

"Now, tell me what happened," Sera says, "I heard something and then there was just nothing. I thought we cleared everything out. Shouldn't have been more. Why were there more"

It is still so dark out. It will be hours and hours before dawn finally comes. But there is a light in the city. There is another one of those firey spirits. Coming. She has to force herself to breathe. She spurs her horse on. They have to get as far away as they can.

"There was a spirit of some sort," Lavellan says, "It put you into some kind of a trance."

"But not you?" Ferris asks, suspicious again. He pulls up beside her, he stares, but she won't look at him. 

No, she thinks, and please, don't start again with that. There is nothing to be so damned suspicious about. Sylaise's power, Merrill's magic, sharing a dream with Dirthamen, any number of things could be the reason she wasn't affected.

But still. She is shaking.

"I think it was Merrill's spell," she says, "She should cast it on all of you."

"My spell?" Merrill asks, looking confused.

"The one you used to keep Solas out of my mind," she says. It makes the most sense. 

And then she does look at Fenris because his breath rushes out and his face scrunches up. He looks like he has just swallowed something sour. Or something rancid. 

"Blood magic," he says, "No." Clearly, he wasn't paying attention when Merrill cut her hand, when she tore a huge chunk out of the crowd. She was incredible. Is incredible. 

"Double no," Sera says. And she must not have noticed either. It was Merrill's spell that turned the tides.

And Merrill hesitates. 

She remembers what it was like with Dirthamen in her head. She is still afraid. 

Lavellan is not surprised when Merrill casts the spell on herself. She ignores Fenris' sputtering and Sera's dirty looks. Blood magic is not worse than being controlled by blood thirsty spirits. It is not worse than being killed because you were bewitched.

And then, she remembers.

Solas is fighting Dirthamen. He is not cowed. Not yet.


	67. Blue Like Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are surprises in Kal-Sharok.

There are too many spirits in the Hunterhorn Mountains. There are too many ghosts. The land is choked with them, and Lavellan is a little afraid, because this is only the fringe. This is the very edge, the low rolling parts of it. 

The further they go, the more spirits greet them. 

She never thought she'd see a griffin, and she never dreamed she'd see the shade of one. But they are everywhere. They shriek. They are still wild, even in death. Why are there so many? What has drawn them here?

How did they let Mahariel talk them in to this? She can't remember.

Game is scarce and the horses aren't happy. They are forced to leave them when they reach the entrance to the tunnels that lead to Kal-Sharok. They will not be gone long---just long enough to resupply. 

Sometimes she thinks she sees something. She catches glimpses of something out of the corner of her eye. She thinks she sees the familiar face, the ridiculous hat---Cole's lanky frame, but it is never for more than a second. It is frustrating.

Merrill sees him too, she thinks.

And then, they reach Kal-Sharok and none of it matters. The spirits, Cole, nothing. They expect to find the great city devoid of life and overcome by the dead. But it isn't.

There are dwarves. And they are alive.

"Oh," Merrill says, "Oh."

Sera goes deathly pale but Fenris merely arches an eyebrow. After everything they've seen, is it even worth it to be surprised?

There are dwarves that aren't dead and aren't infected with red lyrium. Living, breathing, thinking dwarves. Her stomach twists. Her heart is racing. 

The guards' eyes are blue. 

Blue.

There is a titan somewhere in all of this. Maybe that is why there are so many spirits. Maybe the titan's presence has drawn them here.

The guards stop them at the gates, but they don't attack. They don't greet them in Common. It is an older, more distinctly dwarven dialect. She doesn't understand most of it.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I don't understand you."

The guards repeat their commands.

She wonders if they'll attack if she uses the language spell, Dirthamen taught her. She wonders if it will even work.

She hands Merrill her staff and raises her hands, as if in surrender, and she casts the spell. The dwarf looks stunned and then angry. She thinks he's going to attack. His sword is drawn and he's coming at her. He only stops when Fenris' sword is at his nose.

"We mean you no harm," she tries, "We couldn't understand you. The spell will allow us to speak." She puts a hand on Fenris wrist for a moment. She urges him to step back, lower his sword, and he is not happy with her. he gives her a look of disapproval.

The guard doesn't look convinced either, but he doesn't strike her and neither does the other guard. That is something. 

"What do you want, topsider?" he asks.

"We came for supplies," she says, "We are running out of food and we have a long journey ahead. Though I admit, we are surprised to see anyone still alive. Orzammar is gone. The only other dwarves we've met have been poisoned by red lyrium."

"You're looters then," he says, "You planned to steal from the dead."

And his face twists in disgust. The hand on his sword twists and he looks like he's considering gutting her. Fenris mutters something under his breath. Something that sounds suspiciously like an insult. This is getting out of hand, she thinks.

"We only want food, but we are happy to trade for it," she says, "And we are glad Kal-Sharok has survived. The world is richer for it."

He still doesn't seem convinced. His gaze shifts to Fenris and he spits in the dirt.

"May we trade for food?" she asks, "We need nothing else. Please. We'll probably die without your help." Well, probably not, but she is tired of eating scrawny, gristly rabbit. 

He exchanges a glance with the other guard but they don't speak. After a moment, he gives her a nod. But he does not allow them to pass.

"Fine. You can wait here," he says, "A trader will come to speak with you. But you will not be allowed inside."

Some of the tension leaves her. It is better than she hoped for---they don't have much, but they might have enough to get them to the next town. It might be enough to get them through the worst of this. 

It is unnerving the guards don't actually send anyone into the city. It is as if they can speak directly to the people inside, with just a thought. Maybe they can. Maybe the connection to the titan allows it.

When the trader does finally come, he is sullen and rude. His full, white beard is braided and beaded with emeralds. There is a jagged scar through his left eye. Like the gems in his beard, his ruined eye has been replaced with a round, polished emerald. He does not introduce himself. He doesn't care for small talk or pleasantries.

"What do you want?" he asks, "And what do you have to trade?"

He is not impressed with the coin in their purse. He is not impressed with any of the trinkets they've gathered along their way. He stares at it, unblinking, and then he's cursing. 

"Is this all you have?" he asks, "You've wasted my time."

"What can we buy with what we have?" she asks.

"A loaf of bread," he says, "Not enough to compensate me for the time lost while I'm away from my store."

"That sounds like a fuck you," Sera says, "What'd he say?"

"Essentially that," Lavellan says.

"I'm sure we have something he'll want," Merrill says," Give me a minute." She empties her pockets, all of them, and tries again. And she has so many pockets and pouches. 

Lavellan thinks he won't be swayed but then he sees something. 

"Wait, what is that?" he demands, "Where did you find that?"

He snatches shards of something out of the pile. The flat pieces of the disc from June's temple, she realizes, the thing that kept the titan's heart alive and beating. He turns it over and over in his hands, his face a mask of confusion.

"We found it in an elvhen temple in the Deep Roads," Lavellan says.

"It's not elvhen," he insists, "This is---this is very old and it shouldn't be in topsider hands."

"I'm not surprised," she says, "The temple was a strange mix of dwarven and elvhen influences."

"She wants it," he says.

"I beg your pardon?" she asks. She?

But he is bristling. He is prickly. He is not interested in explaining. 

"I'll take this and all the gold you're carrying," he says, "We'll supply you with enough food to last you until you reach---what's the name of that damn topsider city? Bottom. Nord Bottom. Whatever."

"Nordbotten?" she asks. It is so much for just a tiny, broken thing. It is almost too good to be true. 

He doesn't care.

"Should we really let him have that?" Fenris asks, "Is it safe?"

"There's no magic left in it," Lavellan says. She is surprised they bothered to trade at all. She is surprised they didn't just try to take it. And how sad is it that her thoughts jump to betrayal? 

"That's not the point," he says, "It has touched red lyrium---"

"It's been in that pouch for months and it hasn't harmed me," Merrill says.

"Yes, well, you didn't look at it like you wanted to eat it," he says. he is right. The trader does look like he's going to stick it between his teeth and bite down on it. He holds it up to the torch light. He smooths his thumb along the grooves.

"Don't really have much of a choice," Sera says, "Let him have it. Let him eat it. I don't even care. I'm frigging starving."

More dwarves come. They bring bread and cheese and dried meat---nug mostly, but there is also bronto. They bring deep mushrooms. They bring a few bottles of Brakien Brew. 

And when they are done, they send them on their way and caution them not to return.

"You are not welcome here," the trader says.

Well.

So much for that.

The horses are still waiting, outside the entrance to the tunnels. They have not wandered off. 

 

They stop when they find an old campsite. They still hear the spirit griffins shrieking now and then, but they are not so close they can see them. Other spirits, though, they come up to the fire. They drift close enough to touch.

Well, they start to, but Sera and Fenris put a swift end to it. Spirits of sorrow and rage and wisdom disperse, but several spirits of curiosity watch from a distance. And a spirit of love sits between Lavellan and Merrill. It doesn't wait for an invitation. 

She has never seen one before. It is a beautiful, delicate thing and it looks like it's made of fire. It is as blue as the blue eyes of the dwarves of Kal-Sharok.

It hums.

"I'm not sleeping 'til that thing is gone," Sera says.

"Don't play with it," Fenris agrees, "Send it away."

Merrill makes a face.

"Why? It's not hurting anything," she says.

Lavellan agrees, but the humming makes her uneasy. She recognizes the sound. She knows it. And she knows now what kind of fractured spirits have taken Perendale. Love. They felt too many hearts break, and when they couldn't help, they reunited lovers in the only way they could. In death. They killed in a misguided attempt to preserve...something. It almost makes sense.

But this spirit is whole. It is happy. It is not going to summon the dead and try to kill them. She hopes. 

When it leans against her, its touch doesn't burn. Instead, it floods her with a happy feeling, with a curious warmth. She feels safe. Relaxed. Loved.

It chases the worst of her sadness away.

"I don't like this," Fenris says, eyeing the spirit as if it's going to start feasting on their flesh. The spirit of Love eyes him too. But the smile on its face is amused. It looks at Fenris as if he is a very silly kitten, batting at string.It looks at him as if it wants to pull him into its lap and hug the scowl off his face. That would be the worst mistake it could make. She doubts Fenris would allow a spirit to hug him, let alone pull him onto its lap.

"We should chase it away before we turn in," he continues.

"It's a spirit of Love," Lavellan says, "It won't hurt us." It can't. It isn't fractured. Harm isn't in its nature. The worst it could do is make them huddle together and sing horrible songs about friendship. 

"I like the spirit of Love," Merrill says, "I think they're beautiful. They should stay. As long as they'd like." The spirit of Love loves that idea. 

"No," Sera says, "No, no, no, no. No. Hey, and did I mention, NO. You're not supposed to welcome things that can make you do stuff. I don't care if it's just baking cookies or shite, it's still wrong."

The spirit looks sad. It shrinks a little until Merrill pats it on the...back? It is the strangest thing. The spirit is solid but it isn't. Merrill's hand starts to pass through it and then it doesn't. It's almost like water, which is strange, because the spirit looks like fire.

"Well, I'm sorry, but if we can't trust a spirit of Love, who can we trust?" Merrill asks, "Besides, if you'd let me cast that spell, you wouldn't have to worry about compulsions. It isn't just for keeping things out of your head, you know."

"Stop," Fenris says.

"Ellana hasn't had anything terrible happen to her yet and I cast it on her ages ago," Merrill says.

"Stop. Talking. You're making it worse," Sera says. She inches just close enough to kiss her on the cheek and then she's darting away. Out of reach of the spirit. Just in case.

Lavellan sighs. This is ridiculous. The spirit of love is not going to hurt them.

"I'll take first watch then, " Fenris says.

"Pfft. As if I can sleep," Sera says.

 

She does not expect Dirthamen to be charming. She doesn't expect him to try. But it was a strange day and it just keeps getting stranger. Kal-Sharok. The Spirit of Love. And now Dirthamen. 

"My lady," he says, bowing his head. His voice is soft and his smile is soft. He does not look like Solas.

"You look lovely," he continues. 

No. She is not fooled.

"What do you want?" she asks. 

If he notices her irritation, he ignores it. He shifts the Fade, he makes it look like the mountains. He makes it look like a city cut into the stone. But it is nothing like the cities built by the dwarves. It is not Orzammar or Kal-Sharok. It is elvhen and she can see the sky above.

There is a great varterral clinging to one of the walls, high above. Watching. There is white oleander and red oleander growing in thick clusters below it. There are white hyacinths and pink carnations. There are azaleas. 

"Beautiful, is it not?" he asks.

She is tense because she doesn't know what this is. What is he doing? He is worse than Solas. 

"What do you want?" she repeats.

She does not want to play this game. She does not want to play.

"I wanted to show you my city," he says. If Fenris was right about the spirit of Love, she'll never live it down. She hopes it is not affecting Dirthamen through the Fade.

"Why?" she asks.

"You have lived without beauty all your life," he says, "I wanted you to see what the world could be now that I have returned. I can restore much of what was lost."

She doesn't know what to say to that. There is too much rage bubbling up inside her. She has not lived without beauty, no matter what he thinks. Gods, but she is sick of elvhen arrogance. And he is lying. He doesn't care about restoring anything. She is not so foolish she would believe that. He wants Falon'Din back. He wants his lands. He wants his slaves. 

He has no reason to show her this.

She is wearing the strangest robes---black silk, threaded with silver and illuminated tiny points of light. It looks like the night sky, and then she realizes, it is very similar to what Dirthamen is wearing. He has shifted her to match him. A terrifying thought but it is true. He has. They look ridiculous.

But she is plain, unadorned, next to him. She wears a simple, silver chain around her neck while he wears a jeweled ring on each finger, several glittering necklaces, and rings made from precious gemstones in both of his ears---six in each. His hair is long and intricately plaited. He wears a crown of sparkling, tiny wisps. Actual wisps. A crown. Of. Wisps.

He is as ridiculous as anything she has seen.

"Solas wanted to restore the Vir Dirthara," she says, "Will that be your next task?" She dares to hope.

But his scowl is glorious, just as she knew it would be. 

"I will build my own library, in my own time," he says, "I will not take up any of the Dread Wolf's projects."

Yes, she thinks, because he is a child. It is baffling that Solas is the one named for pride, because he is downright humble next to Dirthamen. 

"There isn't much of the world left," she says, "You could use your power to help the people. A library is nice, but impractical. They need food and shelter. They need protection."

Because she can't stop thinking about Perendale. She can't stop thinking about the undead and the fractured spirits. If his focus can be shifted, maybe he could do some good. Maybe it would make up for some of the destruction. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to have to deal with him instead of Solas. 

Something sharp twists in her belly. She does miss Solas. Dealing with Dirthamen is the worst thing. She would trade him in a heartbeat.

He looks bored.

"The People are doing well without my aid," he says, "Even now, they work to rebuild Arlathan. It is not what it was, but it is a start. There are other things that need my attention."

The People. Of course. He has no interest in helping her kind. Just like Solas. He doesn't see the point.

She doesn't want to know what other things he's talking about---she doesn't want to know what needs his attention. She suspects it will only alarm her. Enrage her. 

Why is he here? Why is he really here?'

And how can she make him go away? 

"I am not hunting Elgar'nan's orb," she says, "That's what you want to know, isn't it?"

His smile is infuriating. It is small. It is patronizing. When he looks at her, she feels like a dog, begging for praise.

"It hadn't even crossed my mind," he says. Lies. He is lying. 

"Then what is this?" she asks.

He tries to look innocent, but fails. He tries to pretend he's more interested in the horizon than her reactions. He tries to look nonchalant. But she knows. She can see right through him.

"I merely wanted the pleasure of your company, my lady," he says. 

My lady. He calls her insolent. He says she is nothing, and then, all of a sudden, she's a lady. Ha! 

No.

She is going to laugh and she is not going to be able to stop. 

"You're a terrible liar," she says.

The corners of his mouth twitch. She sees the beginnings of a frown. 

"How are you holding up against Solas?" she continues, "I imagine you've unlocked most of his secrets by now." She feels a rush of pleasure when it makes him tense up, a bit of mean gladness. He is still struggling. He doesn't like to be reminded of his failure.

"Your faith is well placed. It is only a matter of time," he says, and he can't disguise his anger.

"Is it?" she asks. And she snorts. 

"It is," he snaps. His eyes narrow. His fists clench. 

"Lovely. I'm sure this is the last time we'll talk, then," she says, "You have more important matters to attend."

She leans toward him, her own anger snapping, "That was a hint. Go away."

He lets out a hiss, his eyes going wide.

"There is something wrong with you," he says, "Something deeply wrong."

"I don't care. I don't want to see your city. I don't want to see your face. I don't want to see you," she says.

She has had her fill of power mad ancients. She has had her fill of liars. She has had her fill of Fade visits. Just one night of uninterrupted sleep would be delightful. Why is it too much to ask?

The varterral makes a strange sound. It is much like a snarl. Loud. Dangerous. 

She doesn't care.

"I helped you unlock my sister's magic. I taught you a powerful spell---gifted you with several ancient languages," Dirthamen says, "I conquered the Dread Wolf, a thing that should give you much comfort, and in return, you lash out at me. You disrespect me. You insult me."

"You hurt Merrill," she says, "You threatened me, my people. You insult me almost every time you open your mouth, and if that wasn't enough, you almost killed me. That overshadows any thanks I might have owed you."

The more she talks, the angrier he gets. And the varterral reacts. It digs its claws into the wall. It knocks loose chunks of rock and dirt. It flattens itself against the surface and looks like it is going to drop on them. 

"When I find you, " Dirthamen says, his voice low, threatening, "I am going to---"

"What?" she asks, "Kill me? Yes, I thought as much."

He tries to take a breath, calm himself, and she doesn't know why. She doesn't know what this little charade is. What does he want from her? 

"You're upset," he says, "Clearly, something has happened and you're taking it out on me. I will...try to be understanding."

She stares at him because he couldn't have just said that. Is this even him or is it a spirit posing as him? That would make more sense. The real Dirthamen wouldn't try to manage her. He wouldn't play at politeness. He wouldn't care to try.

"Whatever game you're playing," she says, "Stop. I won't help you. Whatever it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, trying to regain his composure.

Even he doesn't believe that. She can see the lie on his face. She can hear his doubt. And she wonders when was the last time he had to use manipulation to get his way? He is at the very least, thousands of years out of practice.

The god of secrets.

Ha!

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she says, "You are trying too hard to be pleasant. It isn't working." 

"Forgive me," he says, "I didn't realize you could be so offended by civil discourse. I will strive harder next time---" 

The varterral is going to eat her. And Dirthamen is probably going to let it. 

"There won't be a next time. I don't want to see you again---" she shouts, but then she is in the waking world. 

She is wide awake and something doesn't feel right. It takes a moment to snap herself out of the dream, to clear Dirthamen away, but when she does, she wishes she'd stayed in the Fade. 

There is a hard, warm body curled around her, a hand on her stomach. She can feel soft lips against her neck. There is a leg wedged between her legs. 

Sera and Merrill have disappeared. Their bedrolls are rumpled and Sera's is folded and twisted and draped over the small stack of firewood. The spirit of love is sitting by the campfire, staring at her, smiling. Humming.

It looks far too pleased with itself. Smug. She would not be surprised if it was responsible for Dirthamen's behavior.

She tries to sit up, but the body behind her tugs her back down. She feels the hot puff of breath on her ear. She feels a very hard, very masculine press of flesh against her backside. And she knows exactly who this is. He is going to be mortified when he finally wakes. And furious. 

Mostly furious. 

He shifts, moving closer. He breathes against her neck, and suddenly, the touch of his lips is a little more than just a touch. Her breath catches.

She glares at the spirit of Love.

Nothing about this is okay.

"Stop it right now," she says, her voice a whisper. And she is glad Sera and Merrill aren't here to see this. Her cheeks are too warm and she is beyond embarrassed. 

The spirit seems to burn a little brighter. It's smile is a little bigger. It is laughing at her. At them. 

"This is not funny," she says. She tries to pry his hand loose. She tries to do it without waking him. 

She does not succeed.

He curses. He goes rigid and jerks away. He gets to his feet and she wonders if he's going to go for his sword. The spirit should not be so unconcerned. It will probably die first. That damned sword Fenris carries is so terribly sharp. 

"What did I say?" he asks, "Last night---what did I say about chasing the damn thing away?"

She is not going to look at him. 

"Let's just pretend this didn't happen," she says. The spirit of Love looks disappointed.

"No," he says.

"No?" And she is confused for a moment. She looks at him and she regrets it because he is beyond fury.

"No, because the next time you or Merrill wants to weigh in on whether or not we should welcome a spirit into our midst, I'm referring to this---this incident," he says.

"And you," he continues, pointing at the spirit "You have worn out your welcome."

"Run," he says.

"Run."

It does.


	68. He Is A Compass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not good, and then they are.

Merrill doesn't really know where they're going. She lets it slip after they make it out of the Hunterhorn Mountains. The spirits follow them, Curiosity and Love but also Rage. Some of the ghosts follow---mostly the Grey Wardens, mostly the griffins. 

"What do you mean you don't know where it is?" Fenris asks.

He's angrier than usual. He's sharper. He's curt.

"I have an idea, but he wasn't terribly eager to share," Merrill says, "He gave me just the general impression of where it might be."

And Fenris is cursing. 

"It's not like he could really know," Merrill continues, "I mean he was trapped in that prison for how many years? Centuries? Longer? Anything could have happened."

"But you don't know," Fenris says, "We've been following your directions---"

"Hey, careful," Sera says, "You want to blame someone, look at Mahariel. It's his stupid idea, not hers."

"But she was the one---"

"Nope, no good," Sera says, "Might have to put bugs in your bedroll. Something worse than bees. You get me?"

The spirit of Love is drifting too close again. It makes him reach for his sword. It makes him ignore Sera and Merrill and Lavellan. He takes one step and then it's running, hiding behind Rage and the Curiosities.

Spirits of Curiosity are never the same. They pulse with color, ever shifting, ever changing. But Rage is constant. It is black eyed and orange flames. It hisses when it looks like Fenris is going to come for it.

"Stop," Lavellan says, "They aren't harming anyone."

She tries to grab his wrist, pull him back, but the look he gives her makes her stop. He and Rage could be friends. If he didn't distrust spirits so much. They wear the same look, the same scowl.

He has been in a rage since the incident, as he likes to call it. She can't really blame him. She's angry too, but he is wearing her patience down, slowly but surely. Or maybe not so slowly. 

This is not his fault, but it's not hers either.

"If we don't know where it is, what do you expect us to do?" he asks. And again, he looks at her like this is her plan, her fault. How many times does she have to remind him? Should she even bother? Clearly, he doesn't enjoy listening to anyone but himself.

Clearly, she should throw something at him.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, "I didn't do this. And neither did Merrill. This was always a long shot."

He takes a deep breath, seems to try to clear some of the anger from his face, but fails. He is furious. This, all of this, has been a waste of time. They are no closer to stopping Dirthamen than they were. And the Anderfels are horrible.

They should have sent Mahariel walking across Tevinter, and they should have taken Morrigan with them, because this is not going well. It is too hot, even at night. It is worse than a desert, because at least a desert cools a little after the sun sets. This is just endless heat. Much of the land is Blighted.

Water is also hard to find. 

She doesn't know where to begin searching for Andruil's orb, but she can't think about stopping. Dirthamen is getting stranger, and she is worried. 

She takes a breath. She tries to stop her temper from rising.

"Maybe we need to take a break," she says, "We've been pushing ourselves too hard."

He snorts.

"I was unaware we had a choice," he says, "We're in the middle of nowhere. We have to keep going."

"I'm trying to come up with a solution," she says.

"Failing," he snaps, "You're failing to come up with a solution. We keep moving. We don't stop until we find a damn village. That's all there is to it."

She tries not to let it sting, but it does. They are all tired and hot and unhappy. Of course they're going to clash. Of course.

"I'm sorry," Merrill says, "I really am---"

"Don't apologize. He's a tit," Sera says, "Hear that Mr. Fasta Vass or whatever. A tit. That's Common for "I'm going to put bees in your butt if you don't stop picking on my girlfriend." Ha!"

"Festus bei umo canavarum," he says, "Vishante kaffas."

"What was that, Shiny?" Sera snaps, "You want to find fresh horse shite in your boots tomorrow? That can be arranged."

And then they are arguing. In earnest. 

Oh dear. 

She feels a headache coming on, and from the way her horse flicks its ears, she suspects it does too. She sighs and looks at Merrill. If they don't find civilization soon, Dirthamen won't have to worry about them finding the orb. 

 

They stop at the edge of a lake. An actual lake. Filled with water. A lake that isn't blighted. A lake that has actual living fish in it. Normal fish.

The spirits cluster around each other, near the horses. They leave a space at the center, as if there's something there, and it is a little unsettling. The ghosts whisper. The griffins that haven't lost interest and wandered back to the mountains, cluck at each other. 

She tries not to look at it. She tries not to look at Fenris and worry. She tries not to look at Sera. She sits with Merrill and pretends everything is fine. Tries to. But she is not very good at pretending.

Sera sits with her feet in the water. She ties the end of one of her bow strings to a stick. She produces a metal hook from one of her pockets and ties it to the other end. She sticks a bit of cheese to it and dips it in the water. And she waits.

She catches fish. She catches lots of fish. 

She laughs when she sees their bewildered faces.

"I know right?" she asks, "Who'd have thunk it? They can't get enough of the stuff."

It almost shakes Fenris out of his sour mood. He catches himself when he starts to smile. He deepens his frown and goes back to stirring the campfire. 

The cluster of spirits gets smaller and dimmer as the evening wears on. The Grey Wardens are disappearing. Slowly. One at a time. She can't begin to guess why or how. They are ghosts. She wonders if they wandered too far. Maybe that's it. Maybe they can't survive away from the place they died or the place they haunt. She doesn't know how it works. 

She wonders if it's Cole's doing somehow. Maybe he's helping.

She wishes he'd help Fenris and Sera.

She stares at the space where she thinks he might be. It takes her a long time to fall asleep. 

 

The Fade is almost familiar. There is a golden city far in the distance and she is standing in another quiet meadow, surrounded by white tulips. 

Dirthamen is back to sulking at the edges of her dream. He wears white silk and sparkling silverite armor, and worst of all, Solas' face. He keeps his hair long and dark though. It hangs down his back, unadorned, and beautiful---it is a heavy fall of shimmering, dark waves. Someone so evil should not have such pretty hair, she thinks.

"What is it this time?" she asks.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"In the Fade."

"That is not what I meant," he says.

"Then you should be clearer," she says. This is the echo of a fight she had with Solas, so many times. 

He tilts his head to the side. He looks at her, and she is struck by how similar the and Solas are today. If she didn't know better, she would think---maybe. Maybe. But not. There is nothing of Solas in his eyes. There is no flicker. 

He doesn't not smile. 

"Very well," he says, "If that is what you wish, I will speak plainly. We do not have to be enemies." He is wrong again. They do have to be enemies because he is terrible. And he sounds like a warlord proposing an alliance. His tone is severe, business like, authoritative without his usual brand of arrogance. She is not interested in any kind of alliance. He is only pretending to see her as an equal. 

Perhaps. 

His ever changing moods and tactics are unpleasant. She would rather he be consistent. Then, she would know what to expect.

"Explain," she says. 

She has no intention of giving him anything, no matter what his demands are. 

"You are the Inquisitor. I hadn't fully realized what that meant, but now that I do, I see how valuable and satisfying an alliance might be," he says, and she can tell, it pains him to admit it, "The young ones of this world are damaged. They are not receptive to the old ways. You could ease their path."

She is burning again. Raging. 

"The young ones," she says, she realizes he isn't talking about children. He's talking about her people, "Let me guess, they didn't take to kindly to the idea of being your slaves."

He is not quick enough to disguise his anger. She knows him now. She sees what strings to pull, what will make him bristle and snap. He is not as complicated as he wanted to appear. He is too used to getting his way.

"They are too proud to accept help," he says, "And there are fewer of them than I anticipated. The Dread Wolf was a fool. He nearly destroyed it all. If we are to rebuild, they will have to change. We all will. They will have to work."

As if they aren't already. As if their struggle is meaningless because it doesn't benefit him. 

"For you," she says, "No. I will not help you enslave us. My people have had enough of that to last an eternity."

He stands very still. He doesn't move. He doesn't pace. He doesn't come closer. He just stands there, looking at her. He fluctuates between anger and frustration. His brow furrows and he struggles to keep the scowl from his face. 

He is trying. So very hard.

"They lack the ability to survive in this world," he says, at last, "I would help guide them. Surely, you see the value in that."

He is not really suggesting this. Even he can not be that insane. 

"And you want me to do what?" she asks. Besides, push you into a volcano, she thinks. 

"I want you to join me," he says, "As my ally, an adviser perhaps. Seeing you by my side will help them accept the change. They will look to you and they will understand---"

She is going to laugh, she thinks. She is going to laugh and laugh and laugh and ultimately that will be what kills her. Death by humor. 

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am, Ellana," he says, "We must all make sacrifices. To restore the world, I would think you'd be willing to do anything." He puts too much emphasis on her name. She feels chastised, scolded. He puts too much emphasis on the "anything" too and it makes her skin crawl.

She is horrified. She is beyond horrified.

"You don't know me as well as you thought," she says, he doesn't know her at all, "I will not let you enslave my people." She is going to find a way to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. 

His mask shifts again. His disdain for her shows, his disgust. He doesn't really mean to make her an ally. He wants control. She is not cooperating and he can't stand it. He just can't.

That makes more sense then. 

"I offer this as a courtesy," he says, "My thanks for your part in my liberation. I don't need you. I can take what I want." 

And there it is. The real him. She could not be more disgusted if she tried. A courtesy, he says. My thanks, he says. But he doesn't know what courtesy means. He doesn't know how to be grateful. He thinks the world owes him everything. And he is wrong. 

He is a relic. He is a ghost from another time. He is a mistake. He does not belong here. Now he does move. He drifts closer. She wants to back away but her feet won't let her. She stands, rooted to the spot. 

"Then that is what you'll have to do," she says, "I am not now, nor will I ever be, willing to help you."

He looks past her to the horizon. He waits until he restores his composure. His body is so stiff, he looks like he's made of stone.

"I will allow you time to think on it," he says, "And I suggest you do."

Oh. Oh, will he? 

No.

Just no. 

"I don't need to think. The offer is as repulsive as you are," she says, "No. Do not ask again. Do not come here again."

He drifts closer still. There must be a way to keep him out. She refuses to believe there isn't. He smiles, but it is not a nice smile. He laughs, but it is not a nice laugh. She doesn't want to know why. She doesn't. 

But she asks. She can't stop herself.

"I don't see what's funny about this," she says, "Why are you laughing?"

She flinches when he touches her chin. She tries to smack his hand away, but he blocks her. He tilts her head back.

"You are amusing," he says, "This brave little face you try to wear, it is much too big. It keeps slipping."

He tries to lean in, his lips dangerously close to her cheek. His breath ghosts across her skin.

"Don't," she says, but it makes his smile deepen. She can't keep the tremor out of her voice. It's unfortunate because he misinterprets it. He thinks it means she's afraid. But he's wrong.

She is so angry. 

"I will give your regards to your vhenan," he whispers, "Do you remember him? Oh, my lady, he remembers you."

His lips touch her cheek and then she's sitting up, wide awake and gasping, her hands balled into fists. She needs to burn something. She needs to burn a lot of somethings.

Cole is sitting by her feet, staring at her. Cole. She almost screams. But somehow, she stops herself. The others are still sleeping and she doesn't want him to disappear again.

He is different. She doesn't know what it is, doesn't really care. This is Cole. He's here and he is ok. The dream and Dirthamen, it all fades into the background. It goes away. 

Cole is here.

He stands. He gestures for her to follow, and then she knows what has changed. His eyes. They are not the eerie, glassy black. They are not like the spirit of Rage. They are normal. They are dark, but human. He looks almost like himself again.

Her stomach twists, but she follows. The spirits are staring at him and the last of the ghosts have gone. Finally. She doesn't know what it means. She doesn't care.

He's here and he's ok. 

She tries to slow her breathing, and when they are far enough away from the others, she dares to speak.

"Are you ok?" she asks, "I was worried."

"I am better," he says. It is "I am". It isn't "we are." 

She is going to cry and then she's going to hug him, because this is wonderful. Her hands are shaking. 

And then she is hugging him. She is squeezing him and he lets her. He pats her back a couple of times, gently. And when she finally pulls back, he is smiling. 

"Where did you go?" she asks, "Were you the one helping us? Was it you?"

She doesn't want to ask about Falon'Din. She wants to ignore the question until there's no other choice. But she can't. 

"Did you take Falon'Din?" she asks. Of course he did. Of course. 

He tilts his head. He looks at her, and his expression is unfamiliar. It is not the usual softness she expects nor the broken shift of emotions that had become him after the fall of the Veil. There is a loss of innocence. There is a hard wisdom. There is something very grown up about him. But it is a good change. It is better than apathy and rage and despair. It is better than Failure. 

"He is safer with me," he says, "He can't hurt me like he can hurt you. Don't worry."

But she does worry. He has no way of knowing. 

"I am fine," he says.

"But you are lost," he adds, "I can help. This time, I can help."

And now she is crying because he is better. He is himself. Gods, she is going to cry forever because she doesn't know how to stop. She hugs him again. She kisses his cheek.

"I was so worried. Don't ever do that again, lethallin," she says.

He pats her shoulder and steps back. 

"You must go farther North," he says. He backs away, still smiling, and she thinks, he is going to leave. But he can't. He can't go yet. 

"North, where?" she asks, "Don't go, Cole. Stay with us."

"Find Tallo's Eye," he says. She doesn't know what that is. She doesn't know anything about Tallo or an Eye. 

"Cole," she says. She tries. 

"I can't, Ellana, and I am sorry," he says, "There is too much hurt. There are things I have to do---"

"I'm only newly mended," he continues, "I'm sorry, but I can't."

It hurts to smile but she does it anyway. She isn't really surprised, but she was hoping, when she saw him. She was hoping he would join them. She missed him.

"It's alright," she says, "I'm just---ugh. It's been---I'm not---"

"I know," he says, "I know."

"Who are you talking to?" 

She yelps, turns, and Fenris is standing there, glaring. His voice is stern. Accusing. When she turns back, Cole is gone. She may as well have been talking to herself. That is how it looks. 

She wipes her eyes. She tries to stop herself from crying. She doesn't want him to see.

"Cole was here," she says.

He says nothing, but she can feel him, staring. She doesn't care. Cole was here and he's better. He's almost like himself again. He is ok. 

It makes up for everything else. Dirthamen. Solas. The orbs. Everything. She scrubs at her eyes because they are still so wet. They won't stop.

"Are you ok?" he asks. And he sounds uncomfortable.

"I am now," she says.

"You don't sound ok," he says.

But she is. She looks at him and she smiles and she feels like they may just have a chance to salvage something of the mess that is this world. 

She doesn't know what the look on Fenris' face means. His breath catches and his eyes are too wide. His shoulders are too straight, his back too stiff.

"I'm fine now," she says, "I know where we have to go."


	69. Ir Tel'him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Void take the Anderfels.

Nordbotten is quiet but not deserted. She sees movement at a few of the windows. She counts maybe ten faces before she starts to feel uneasy.

Every face wears vallaslin. All of the lines look new. None of the elves dress like the Dalish. 

All of the vallaslin belongs to Dirthamen. 

"I think we should go another way," she says. Merrill makes a panicked sound. She pulls back on her reigns, moving even before Lavellan has finished talking.

"Why?" Sera asks. And her horse stops, it fights her when she tries to spur it on. It tries to follow Merrill's as she guides it back.

"No, she's right. It's wrong," Merrill says, over her shoulder, "There shouldn't be this many Dalish with the same vallaslin. Maybe it happens but not here. Not now. Not like this. Too much of a coincidence."

Sera curses.

"No way he knows we're here," she says.

And Fenris is muttering in Tevene again. Too quiet to make out this time. He tries to turn, to follow Merrill, but that is when everything goes wrong. His voice breaks. He cries out and slumps forward in the saddle. 

Her breath strangles in her throat. She can't move.

There is an arrow, sprouting between the armor and the line of exposed flesh where his shoulder meets his neck. The angle is strange. If it was any lower or higher---she can't think beyond that. She is choking on panic, turning, trying to help him.

This can't be happening. 

"Creators no!" Merrill says

Another arrow takes Lavellan's horse and she goes down with it. She hits hard, her leg caught under. She thinks it might be broken---it must be after that, but she doesn't feel the crunch of bone. There is only sharp pain, a heavy pain. She can still move, still feel, but it is agony. Fenris is hurt. Fenris is hurt very badly. 

She gasps when she tries to pry herself free.

Sera drops to the ground, takes her arm and pulls and Merrill is casting something. Lavellan can't see who she's targeting or what---she just senses the rush of magic.

Another arrow strikes the ground by Sera's feet. She doesn't let go, she grits her teeth and pulls as hard as she can while Lavellan pushes against her poor horse's back. It didn't deserve to die. It shouldn't have. Whoever did this---they will regret it. They just get her free when another arrow hits. 

Sera screams. The length of it is buried in her leg, just below her knee. And Merrill is dropping to the ground, stumbling. She sinks beside her as Sera's legs give out. As she sits down hard. 

Merrill has a hand around the arrow shaft, ready to yank it out---to heal Sera when the soldier speaks again.

"Not another move. My archers do not miss." And Merrill lets go. She holds up her hands.

The voice is familiar, but she can't place it. When she looks up though, she knows who has caught them. The woman is the same soldier from Solas' forest. She carries a new halberd and her face is newly marked with Dirthamen's vallaslin. The muscles on the left side of her face still don't really move, but a smirk is there all the same. 

This is the woman Sera shot in the knee, the one who almost caught them. 

There are five archers and five swordsmen and women. And Fenris is sliding, falling off his horse. He hits the ground and he goes quiet. The arrow jars and she is very afraid. She is very, very afraid. 

He should not be this quiet. 

She can't even feel the pain in her hip and leg. 

"What the void is wrong with you?" she shouts. She rounds on the woman, moves even before it registers she's been ordered not to---she doesn't care. She can't think.

The halberd swings at her, stopping just at her chest. 

"What did I just say?" the woman asks.

She wishes she knew the spell Solas used to turn people to stone because it would have been satisfying to turn them all into statues. How dare they? How fucking dare they.

"What did you say? I think it was how sorry you are for hurting my friends," she says, "And you want a head start before I turn you and your soldiers to ash."

And then the woman is striking her with the back of her hand. Her metal gauntlet. She doesn't try to dodge, she takes it hard to the face. She feels her skin split. She feels the blood. She sees sparks of light behind her eyes. 

Dirthamen doesn't care if they hurt her. Dirthamen has probably told them only to keep her alive and damn the rest of them. He probably didn't even tell them she had to be in one piece. They will hurt her if they can get away with it. And she knows they will kill Sera and Merrill and Fenris. 

She wonders, can she burn their arrows before they strike? Can she get all of them? Can she buy enough time for Merrill to heal Sera?

Five archers. Five swords. One halberd.

She doesn't like her odds. This can't be happening.

"Do you surrender or do I get to put another arrow in your poor man there?" the woman asks, "I doubt he'll survive it. Shall we find out?"

"You killed my horse," she says.

"You killed my soldiers and they're worth far more than a tired mare." 

"Wrong. That horse is worth a thousand of your horrible People," she says. 

"You mean it was worth a thousand of my horrible People. It's dead now and there's nothing more to be said for it. Your little bitch of an archer almost crippled me. You're lucky I haven't returned the favor. Do you surrender?" she asks, "Never mind. I don't care---put another arrow in the man."

"No!" she shouts and she doesn't mean to be that loud. She steps in front of Fenris. The woman laughs at her again. 

"I told you not to move." Lavellan feels like magic is spilling out of her. She is too hot. Her head is throbbing. 

"Do us all a favor and fall down a well or something," Sera says, "Might improve the smell at least. You're like dead beavers and shite."

The woman turns toward her. She kicks her. She smiles when Sera yelps. 

"Leave her alone!" Lavellan says, "You have us. There's no need to hurt anyone." The woman gestures and the swordsmen and women come forward. 

"I'll kill them all if you give me a reason," the woman says, and she looks pointedly at the magic spilling out of Lavellan's palms, "Stop that. I know what you are. We have been warned."

She doesn't know what to do.

"You won't," she says.

But the woman is not bluffing. She will kill them or she will hurt them so they wish she had killed them. And then she will deliver what's left to Dirthamen. 

"Do not resist," the woman says, "We'll see to the wounded. You will sit and thank the gods Lord Dirthamen wants you all alive." Her temper flares. She will never thank the gods for that. Dirthamen is a monster. One of the soldiers grabs her wrists and pulls her forward. He tries to twist them behind her. 

When she struggles, he slams a fist into her stomach. She doubles over. 

No. This is not how it's going to end.

Another soldier gets her wrists in the chains. She feels the clap of iron and the sigil's activate. It's worse than a spell purge. Her mana is gone and she is sinking to her knees, drained. She can't cast anything. She can't even touch her magic. 

The woman hands her halberd off and takes a dagger out of her boot.

Lavellan doesn't like this. She doesn't like the look in her eye.

She gets Sera by the throat and drags her up. It doesn't matter that she is screaming. The arrow has been pulled out of her leg---Lavellan doesn't see it. And Sera is bleeding. It doesn't matter that they're already subdued and there is no need for violence. The woman is still angry that Sera shot her. She is angry and there is no one to intervene. 

"Don't hurt her," Merrill says, "Please---"

"You're next, I promise, da'len," she says, "You killed my soldiers. I remember your face."

She is squeezing Sera's throat. 

"S'only fair. You were---gonna kill us too," Sera says, barely getting the words out. Her voice rasps. 

The woman grips the dagger and she is going to stab it in one of the weak places in Sera's armor. She is going to kill her. There is nothing Lavellan can do because she should not have let them get the damn spelled chains on her. She should have fought harder---

"This was a long time coming," the woman says, "Na din'an sahlin." Her face twists and she tenses. the dagger gleams as she jerks it back---

Sera snarls and all at once there is an arrow in her hand. She jabs it hard and fast into the woman's throat. The same arrow from her leg. The same one. It makes the woman let go. Sera yanks the arrow back out as she falls. Blood gushes from the wound.

"Long time nothing. Should have quit while you were ahead," Sera says and then she's limping. She's rolling back away, snatching her bow up off the ground and firing.

The woman staggers.

She falls. 

She dies. Even before the rest of her people realize what has happened. Their eyes go wide and their mouths hang open, a look of shock written across their faces. 

Lavellan is screaming.

Merrill catches the soldiers with thorny vines, she casts a barrier spell, and while the enemy soldiers are struggling, Sera hits them. 

They are almost too surprised to do anything, but the archer come back to their senses first. They return her fire and Lavellan has to scramble back out of the way. She crouches down beside Fenris. He can't move. He isn't even awake, but he's alive. 

She works the chains down under her feet and gets her hands in front of her. She tries to drag Fenris behind the bulk of her poor horse. He groans when she jars the arrow, still lodged in his shoulder. But he doesn't wake. He doesn't move. Gods, what is she supposed to do? 

She is useless without her magic. She is useless and she hates this. 

Merrill cuts her palm and the rush of her blood and her magic is slicing through the archers. They drop their bows. 

They scream. 

They scream and they writhe and then they are dying too. Lavellan has never been so happy to see someone die before. She had never felt such a flood of relief and she thinks, maybe, she should be ashamed. But she isn't. 

The fight is over and Lavellan has done nothing at all. She feels very strange. 

Sera sits when the last of them fall. She hisses and moves her leg so that it's out in front of her. Lavellan checks the soldiers pockets for the keys to her chains and Merrill pulls the arrow out of Fenris. Her hands glow and she heals him. 

He is still unconscious even after the hole closes. His breath comes in even though. He'll be ok. 

She is going to vomit and her leg is starting to really hurt. She finally finds the key---she fumbles with it when she tries to fit it in the lock, but eventually it gives. She feels the rush of her mana again and it is so overpowering she is dizzy.

Sera looks at her.

"Maybe next time, don't let 'em put that shit on you," she says, "You gave up too soon."

She doesn't see it that way. She had no choice. She bought them time. It gave Sera a chance to get the arrow out of her leg.

She tries to smile.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says.

She hears footsteps, she hears a door open and shut, several. When she looks up, she sees the towns people. They emerge from their houses and they are horrified. 

Some are grateful but not all. Most of them are not.

 

The people bury the dead. They reluctantly, very reluctantly, offer up an abandoned house at the edge of town to them for the night.

"But then you have to go," the elder says, "When more come, they can't find you here."

"We won't die for you," another says. 

She can't help but feel a little bitter. It isn't their fault. She knows. Dirthamen has already forced his vallaslin on them. He would have no problem ordering their deaths if he thought they'd helped them escape. But still.

She is bitter.

Fenris has healed but he is exhausted. He curls up on the floor of the house and passes out not long after. He shuns the bed. No amount of coaxing could change his mind. He sleeps by the fire.

Merrill and Sera disappear into the back room, and then Lavellan is alone.

She doesn't really want to sleep. 

But she does and she regrets it.

The Fade does not shape itself tonight. It is a stark gray nothingness. The sky is empty. 

Dirthamen is in a rage. He is leaking light into the air around him. There is a haze of green. She doesn't know what it means.

"You are not nearly as clever as you believe," he says. He is in her face, snarling. Gods but she is tired of him. Of this.

"Use your words. I don't know what you mea---"

He hits her. 

"Do not speak to me with that tone," he says.

She has not tried to use her magic in the Fade in a while. She wonders how effective it will be. She wonders if he'll have blisters when he wakes. If she burns him.

"Hit me again and see what happens," she says.

He does. 

And one more time.

White tulips spring up around his feet. The green light flickers around him. And she is almost too confused to be angry. 

"I have had enough of you and your insolent tongue," he says, "I have tried to be accommodating, but you do not deserve my kindness." 

Kindness. Really. He can not be this upset about a few dead soldiers. He just can't.

She hates him. She hates the sound of his voice. She hates his strange not-quite-Solas face. Everything.

"I don't believe I've seen your kindness," she says, "And if I have, clearly, it needs work."

She blocks him when he tries to hit her again and she sends silent thank you to Cassandra and Blackwall and Cullen for suffering through those pathetic training sessions. It was worth it in the end. 

And the look on his face when she knocks his fist away from her face---it fills her with warmth. The green light around him is so very strange. It is almost comforting. 

"I will save you for last," he says, "You will watch while the life fades from their eyes, your allies, your...friends. I will relish the sounds of their screams for years to come. And you, Inquisitor, my dear, sweet Ellana. You can not imagine the pain you will feel. The things I will do to you..."

"You are not nearly as clever as you believe," she says, cutting him off, "I am not afraid of your threats. I am not afraid of you."

His breath comes out in a rush. The haze seems brighter somehow. There is more green. 

Why is he so angry all of a sudden?

She goes cold. She hopes, she hopes he doesn't know about Cole and Falon'Din. 

"What happened to put you in such a snit?" she asks. 

"I think I will take Merrill first," he says, "Again. She knows how to address her betters."

He is shaking, trembling with fury. And then she knows. She can see it on his face.

"Mahariel," she says, "Of course."

Mahariel is better at this than she realized. He has swooped down and plucked a victory right out from under him. She hadn't thought it would be so soon. 

She wonders if they've unlocked the orb yet. She wonders if they've taken its power, and if they have, who took it?

"Do not say that name."

She laughs. She has guessed right. It is Mahariel that has him in such a mood. Mahariel has found the orb. He has reminded Dirthamen he is not all powerful after all.

"How did legends ever confuse you for a god?" she asks.

"I am a god," he says.

"You are not," she says, "You had every advantage and you were beaten by a child. Really, Mahariel is...what, forty? Thirty five? I forgot to ask. How old are you?"

She has struck her mark and Dirthamen is sputtering. He grabs her arms and digs his fingers into her skin. His gaze is so dark. She should be afraid. Maybe she would be if she hadn't seen his tantrums.

"I was trapped for centuries," he says, "The land has changed. I had no way of knowing.You are wrong, I had no advantage."

"I helped you," he says, "I helped all of you and this is the thanks I get."

More flowers sprout around him. They spread out. They ripple around her feet. 

He is losing control. 

This is Solas.

She needs to make Dirthamen angry. She needs to make him very, very angry. This is how Solas gets a foothold. This is how he breaks through. And if he can break through---

"You couldn't beat Mahariel," she says, "You have Mythal's power. You have June's power. And you still couldn't do anything. You are weak."

"You are nothing," she continues.

She can't tell if it's working. She only knows he's angry and then he's boiling over. His eyes are too bright and his grip is too tight. He has her flat against a wall and he is hitting her again. 

She grabs his wrist and then she is biting his throat. She is tearing a chunk out of him and he is screaming.

"Stop this," he says, his voice going high, wild. 

He tries to shove her away but she's holding on, she's burning him. She's scorching him. The green light flares and then it is too bright. It is too bright and it is getting brighter.

She puts a hand on his chest---the same hand that would have the anchor if they were in the waking world. She can feel it, but it is different. Distant. 

She doesn't care. It will be enough or it won't. 

She pulls. It is not the same but she pulls and pulls and pulls. Dirthamen shrieks. He flickers. He does. The green light gets stronger.

Dirthamen breaks. 

He fractures.

Pieces of him tear away, and when they touch the green light, they blink out. The pieces that break away are destroyed and the thing that was Dirthamen is gone.

There is only a piece of him left. It slips deeper inside. It twines itself around the other threads of power. The blue and silver and green. It is a small thing, little more than a shadow, and certainly not as big as the shade of Falon'Din.

Dirthamen is gone and the rest is Solas.

He looks at her, eyes too wide, but clear. He looks at her and he is himself again.

He doesn't smile. 

"Solas?" she asks. She will never doubt the anchor again. 

But then he is gone. He leaves her alone in the Fade and she doesn't know where they stand. She is worried.


	70. A Blighted Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find the temple.

Tallo's Eye is a crater at the very center of a strange stretch of blighted land. The horses won't go there. They won't leave the safety of the clean earth. They won't come near the bodies.

Because there are bodies. So many dead. None of them are recent. 

But instead of rotting in the sun, they are shriveled. They are mummified---she can still see the blighted veins on their faces, the spidery, tar black veins. They wear the armor of the ancient elves. Some wear Andruil's vallalsin. Some wear Mythal's. And there are more than a few with Ghilan'nain's.

She has not seen Solas since that night in Nordbotten. He won't come to her in the Fade.

"How much do you want to bet those things start moving when we start walking?" Sera asks, "Let's not do this."

"Well we don't really have a choice," Merrill says, "We're here. We're supposed to---"

"Just because Mahariel tells you to do something," Fenris says, "It doesn't mean you actually have to do it."

She bristles.

"I know that," she says, "But how else are we going to find the orb and keep it away from the Dread Wolf if we stop now?"

He sighs like she has missed the point. 

"I can burn them if they reanimate," Lavellan says. And she can. After what happened in the Fade with Dirthamen, something has changed. She feels different. She is almost confident again. 

Fire has always come naturally. It will be easier than fighting in the Fade. She can do this.

Fenris looks at her like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. Sera looks at her like she wants to throw something, but she doesn't. Because Merrill is right. They came here for a reason. The reason hasn't changed just because Solas is himself again.

Still. She doesn't want to infect herself with the Blight. Seeing all these bodies---it is unsettling. Worse.

They leave the horses and they walk. The ground is hard and dead under their feet. There is no grass, no foliage of any kind. And the further they go, the stranger the air smells. 

It isn't the smell of decaying flesh or smoke. It is sour. Tangy. Wholly unpleasant. 

 

There is an opening near the center of the crater. There is a tunnel. There are stairs and elvhen stonework. But there is more.

There is a flicker of light when she puts her foot on the first step. There is a spirit and it is broken.

It looks like a woman---she tries to speak, she opens her mouth and moves her lips, but there is no sound. She is bare faced. She doesn't wear anyone's vallaslin. She doesn't wear armor and she doesn't look like a warrior. She is much softer.

She is very interested in the lines of lyrium on Fenris' face, his hands...him. He backs up when she comes too close. He makes a warning sound and he looks like he wants to draw his sword---but what good would it do? She is a spirit, or rather, a ghost. His sword would pass harmlessly through her body.

And when the spirit looks at the anchor and Lavellan's left hand, she looks just as intrigued. She almost smiles.

"No, no, no, no, no," Sera says, "And more no. Why are we doing this?"

"What does she want?" Lavellan asks.

"She's some kind of guardian, perhaps?" Merrill asks, "Maybe." It makes sense. She is not one of Andruil's priests or acolytes. She would have been marked with vallaslin. She is not Andruil either, Lavellan thinks. She doesn't know how she knows it, but it is there. A gut feeling. Intuition. Something.

And Sera is not pleased.

"Not an answer," Sera says, "You know this is about to turn nasty, right? Always does. Always right about here."

And Fenris agrees. She expects him to add his voice to the argument, but he doesn't. He meets the spirit's curious gaze with hostility. He watches her. He waits.

The spirit wants something. No. Needs something. Desperately. She looks weary. She looks sad, terribly sad.

"I don't think she's going to hurt us," Lavellan says.

Fenris makes a rude noise.

"You have no way of knowing that," he says.

He is right, she doesn't, but all the same, she feels something. Whoever this is, she has been waiting for so very long. Lavellan wants to follow her. She wants to help her.

Why, she wonders. She takes a breath, she tamps down her doubts. This is what they've come for, isn't it? The orb is here. They will find it and take it away. They will stop Solas from getting his hands on it.

None of them are eager to continue on just yet. But the spirit turns, beckons them to follow.

They do.

They pass through old workshops. They pass through dark rooms lined with rusted cages and animal bones. So many animal bones. Some are too strange to belong to anything she has ever seen. Some are dragon sized. 

Merrill tries to talk to their guide. She chatters on, exclaiming over the mosaics and the unfamiliar tools and weapons in the workshops. She asks endless questions.

But the guide can't answer. She tries. She opens her mouth, moves her lips, but still, there is no sound. 

And then she stops. 

 

Lavellan feels the bottom drop out of her stomach and she thinks Sera was right. This was a mistake. Because the room is not dark like the others. It is bright and there are glowing crystals in almost every corner. 

Glowing red. 

Lyrium.

"Wonderful," Sera says, "This is brilliant, isn't it? Great call, Inky. You found more red frigging lyrium."

"I didn't find anything," she says, "This was Mahariel's plan." Mostly. 

"Well, you followed it."

"And so did you!" she snaps, "You're not the only one who has access to bees, Sera, and I know where you sleep." She is surprised when that works, but grateful, nonetheless. Now is not the time to argue.

The room is tainted with red lyrium and the spirit is waiting, watching. She wants something more from them and Lavellan has no idea what it could be. No. She wants something from _Fenris_. She keeps drifting closer, stopping only when he reacts. Almost as if she's herding him, pushing him toward whatever it is she needs.

"Stop," he says, and the spirit gestures to the ground. The floor is damaged. Most of the tiles are broken, but a few remain in tact. When Fenris moves away, she looks exasperated. She kneels by the tile, pushes her hand through it as if to press it. She moves to another tile, repeats the process. And then again with a third tile.

"No," Fenris says, "I'm not doing that."

She repeats herself. She mimes pressing each tile, she looks at him, expectant. Impatient. 

Lavellan sighs. If they are to get anywhere, they will have to try it. But when she moves toward the tile, Fenris stops her.

"You have no idea what that will do," he says.

"Do you have any other ideas?" she asks.

"We can leave," he says.

"No," she says, "We can't."

"I thought you didn't care about taking more power," he says.

"I'm not taking it for myself," she says, "I'm not taking it at all." And he is making her angry. She doesn't want it. She has said she doesn't want it how many times? Too many to count. This is not for her.

This is to stop Solas. 

"Dirthamen was in Solas' head a lot longer than Merrill's," she says, "If we found this place, you can bet he will too." And he will. If he hasn't already set his sights on this place, he will soon enough. Whatever he's doing, whatever has kept him away from the Fade and her, she knows. It isn't going to be good.

She presses the first tile and then the second. Merrill presses the third. 

Nothing happens.

Sera snorts.

"Well that was a dud," she says, "New idea. Burn it all? Yes? You can do that, right?"

Lavellan huffs.

No. She is not burning this place. 

The spirit is still staring at Fenris. Her expression is darker, she is angry now. Clearly, she wants Fenris to do it, and it is a little troubling. Why him? What's different about him? Lavellan can't blame him for being apprehensive. 

Maybe they should find another way. Maybe they should try something else.

But he is staring at the spirit and then the tiles and then Merrill and he is throwing up his hands in surrender. 

"Fine,' he says, "Fine."

"But if this leads to the orb, we're destroying it. No one's taking any more magic. No one's using it," he says, "Is that clear?"

"Best idea so far," Sera says.

"I thought that's what we were going to do anyway," Lavellan says, "Isn't that what you told Mahariel?"

He mutters under his breath and shoots her one last, dark look. He presses the tiles. He makes a point of ignoring her and she feels insulted. 

Fine, she thinks. If he wants to be this way about it. Fine.

The tiles glow and the lyrium in his skin glows. There is a click and then the spirit is fading. She bows and then she's gone. It is strange.

A hole forms in the center of the room. It splits and spreads and then something is rising up from it. Fenris steps back. He catches Lavellan's wrist and pulls her back too, but he has nothing to worry about. The room isn't unstable. It isn't going to collapse. She extracts herself from his grasp.

"What is that?" Merrill asks.

But Lavellan knows. It's Andruil's orb---no. Orbs. There are two, resting side by side on the circular alter. One is more like a puzzle box. It is square and decorated with elvhen runes fashioned from, stranger still, blue lyrium crystals. The other orb is plain and round and smooth. It is black like obsidian. 

She doesn't know what to think because this is unexpected. How can there be two?

"Which one is it?" Sera asks, "Guess it doesn't matter. We can break 'em both. Probably best."

"Do you think..." Merrill asks, "Do you think the other one belongs to Ghilan'nain?"

"It might," she says. It makes a certain kind of sense. Ghilan'nain was Andruil's lover. 

She plucks the plain orb up. She tries to burn it with fire. She tries to melt it, but a jolt shoots up her arm and she drops it. The damn thing doesn't even get warm. 

"So much for that," she says, "Any ideas?"

Merrill picks up the puzzle box but none of her magic has an effect either. 

"I'm at a loss," Merrill says.

"Smash it, maybe?" Sera asks, "Worked on the Egg's orb."

Fenris plucks the puzzle box out of Merrill's hands. Lavellan thinks he's going to set it on the ground, find a rock and try to break it that way, but he doesn't get the chance. The lyrium runes on the box light up. His lyrium tattoos light up. He yelps and he tries to throw the damn thing but he can't. 

His fingers seize up around it and white light pours into him. 

When it's over, the box cracks. It crumbles to dust and Fenris falls to his knees. His face is a mask of horror. Disgust. Rage. He is shaking. He is cursing. 

"You have got to be shitting me," Sera says.

 

The other orb is dormant. Nothing she or Merrill tries works and Sera refuses to come near it. Fenris refuses to come near it. 

He leads them out of the temple and back to the horses, and he doesn't try to hide his unease. This is not what he wanted. This isn't even close to what he wanted. She can tell, the thought of holding that much magic terrifies him. He hates it.

They ride. They make camp. They don't talk.

And when she finally drifts off to sleep, Solas comes. Finally, he does.

He grabs her arms and she doesn't even have a chance to speak.

"Why?" he asks, "Why can't you leave well enough alone? You're making it worse." His desperation is overpowering. His grip is too strong. She can't push him away.

"I could say the same to you," she says, "Solas, let go."

He doesn't and his eyes are wild. She isn't sure he has even heard her. Not really.

"I have tried," he says, "I have tried and I have tried and still you persist."

She isn't sure how he knows about the orbs or Tallo's Eye, but somehow, he does. That must be the source of his fury. 

"What will it take to get you to stop?" he asks, "What can I offer you to convince you to turn from this path?"

"We have discussed this already," she says.

"You destroyed the world," she continues, "You did."

"No," he says, "But you will. You are very close to it, vhenan. The damage Dirthamen has caused---you don't understand. You can't possibly."

And she is angry again, much angrier than she was. If he had let her go when she first asked, if he had stopped stuffing himself full of stolen power, if he had listened, none of this would be happening. He can't look at her like that and blame her. She shares a part of it, but not all. Somewhere, he has to know that.

"DIrthamen was a mistake," she says, "A terrible mistake. I won't deny that. But you are not a blameless martyr for the cause. You are not some tragic hero fighting corruption. You are the corruption."

His breath comes out a hiss, but she doesn't stop. She pushes against him, tries to twist free, and when he won't let go, when she can't make him, she considers biting him. 

"Your ancient elves are not the only people in the world, Solas," she says, "No matter how much you or they wish it were true. My people are here and we will not let you push us out."

"I never wanted that. I wasn't trying---" he says, and his voice breaks, "You're twisting everything I've done. You're making it into something it's not. I know you are people. I know you're all people. "

'You don't understand," he says.

"I was worried about you," she says, "After Dirthamen."

"Mahariel did this," he says, "And you...helped him."

The look of betrayal on his face---it twists in her gut. She never meant for it to happen. She never wanted---gods, how does he do this? How does he get to her? How does he twist everything to make her feel terrible? What happened to him was wrong. She knows. But the things he did were just as terrible. He took Falon'Din into himself and he did it on purpose. He killed so many people, so many innocents. He destroyed Kirkwall. He made her a prisoner. 

He does not get to look at her like this. He does not. 

"I absolutely did not help Mahariel," she snaps, "You took two of my people prisoner, or have you forgotten? You did this to yourself." Among other things. 

He lets go. Finally. He steps back and she does not like the look in his eyes. He is like a stranger. He is cold. Distant. She sees the man he was just before the world ended. She knows that face.

"I will put an end to this," he says, "You are my heart, but I will not---I can not let you continue like this." It makes her skin prickle. 

"Solas," she says.

"No," he snaps, "I don't want to hear it. You have been to Andruil's temple. You have walked through tainted land. You've risked yourself again for foolishness." But it isn't foolishness to want protection. It isn't foolishness to want to defend all that remains of her people. 

He steps back again. He puts distance between them and he is shaking.

"No doubt you have found Andruil's orb," he says, "Surrender it to me, vhenan. Do that and we can go back to the way we were. We can forget all of this. I love you." Orb and not orbs. Andruil and not Ghilan'nain. He doesn't know, she thinks. He doesn't know everything. 

"Please, vhenan," he says, "This is the last time---it is the last time I will ask you."

But he knows her answer. She can see it in his eyes. His face is crumpling. He knows.

"We could never go back to the way things were," she says, "I am the Inqisitor. I am the First of Clan Lavellan, and now, because of you, I am also the last. I was never meant to be kept it a pretty cage. No matter how much I love you, I won't go back to that. I won't."

He nods as if he expected it. 

"Then I will take the orb from you," he says, "And I am sorry, for whatever happens."

"Goodbye, Solas," she says, and she is going to cry. It hurts and she hates it. She hates his stupid quest and his stubbornness. She hates this world and she hates herself. Nothing is right.

Nothing will be right.

He is gone and she is alone again.


	71. An Endless Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can't stand the frustration.

They are on their way to Weisshaupt when a patrol intercepts them. Everything is fine until Fenris tries to join the fight. He doesn't just stop them, he obliterates them and it is horrifying.

There is nothing left. 

He panics. He retreats. He puts a ridiculous distance between him and the rest of the group and he looks like he's afraid of himself.

"I don't care what you have to do," he says, when she tries to talk to him, "Get this magic out of me." 

"I can't," she says. 

"You're lying," he says, "You got rid of Falon'Din and Dirthamen. You can get rid of this."

"Those were souls, soul fragments," she says, "It's not the same thing." It isn't, but he doesn't believe her. He is angry and she's a convenient target.

When Solas tried to take Sylaise's magic, it killed her. If he couldn't do it, there's no way she could and she won't risk Fenris' life for this. Let him hate her, but at least, he'll be alive. She's tempted to tell him that but she doesn't care to see his reaction. 

"I'll ask Velanna to do it then," he says, "Or Merrill."

But Merrill is even less enthusiastic about it.

"If she can't do it, I don't know why you think I could," she says.

He likes that about as much as he likes blood magic. He retreats even further. He grumbles to himself. He talks to no one. He stares into the fire. He is miserable.

She doesn't know how to help him.

 

She doesn't expect to see Solas again. Not really. But he finds her in the Fade. Before she can think about it, before she can ask, his hands are in her hair, his body is pressed against hers. 

He kisses her, his lips firm, insistent. He does it over and over again.

When he looks at her, his eyes are wide. They are wild. She doesn't understand.

"You don't get to do this anymore," she says, "Not if you're going to try to kill us."

But he does. He kisses her again. He cradles her face between his palms. He gets a knee between her legs and he is leaning. He is easing her up just enough for her to know, to feel it. He is going to drive her crazy.

"Solas," she says.

"I don't know," he says, "Nothing makes sense."

What does he mean by that? She grips his arms and she doesn't want to let go.

"I don't want to do this," he says.

But he won't let go either. He won't. 

"You don't have to do anything," she tries. She doesn't know what she'd do if he agreed to stop chasing them, stop fighting them, finally. If he gave up and pulled his people back. If he was himself again. 

She wishes it was this simple.

But it isn't. He is playing at something.

"But I do," he says, "The responsibility that comes with this power---I can't ignore it."

Now, he cares. Now.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, "I can't read your mind."

His body goes tense, but still, he doesn't pull away. He sighs. He kisses her neck. His hands skim her sides. He tugs at the hem of her shirt. He presses his palms to her skin. He draws lazy circles with his fingers. 

"I don't want it to be like this," he whispers and his breath makes her shiver.

"Then stop," she says.

"It isn't that simple."

"No, it isn't," she says, "But it's your own damn fault."

"The People need me."

And now she is done. She doesn't want to hear about the People. She goes rigid in his arms and she pushes him away. The People. It's always the People. It's never her. She is never important enough to consider. 

He looks hurt.

He always does.

She sees a flicker of something else in his eyes again. It is a shadow. Like Falon'Din was. It is dark and worst of all familiar.

It is the last piece of Dirthamen.

It is a part of him now. She knows because she can't see where it ends and Solas begins. It has buried itself too deep inside him. It has fused to the the rest of him, bound itself. 

Suddenly, her fear is worse than her anger, stronger. 

"I don't understand how you can look at monsters like Dirthamen and see kinship," she says, "But people like Sera, people like me---it's too difficult for you. You're a smart man, Solas, I wish you'd act like it." She tries to steady her voice. 

He opens his mouth but she thinks she knows what he's going to say. _You don't understand_. But no. She does.

"My people need their own place," she says, "Respect that and pull back. Stop trying to reshape the world. The evanuris built their paradise on a lie. Don't repeat their mistake."

"I'll keep my people out of your lands, vhenan," she says, "I promise. Just stay away. I don't want to fight you. I'm tired."

She is.

"It is not enough," he says.

"Why?" she asks, "Why isn't it?" Why isn't she enough? 

His gaze shifts inward. He looks haunted. Broken.

"You don't understand," he says.

"Make me understand," she says, "You don't need more power. The world will never be what it was. You have to accept it. You have to move on."

He shakes his head.

"You are children playing with fire," he says.

And it stings. Children. They are not children. Why can't she make him understand?

"We aren't children. We'll be fine."

"You are so very young," he says, and what does that say for him, for their relationship, "You will be fine for a while. I know. I've seen it. Your people will prosper and for a time there will be peace. But slowly, you will start to fall apart. You will start to abuse your power. You will see yourselves as gods. The People will suffer. You will lose yourselves."

"And you won't?" she asks.

"I don't matter."

How can a brilliant mind such as his be so stupid? How could she have been so in love with him and not seen his madness? This is insane. He is wrong.

"Who stops you then?" she asks, "When the power corrupts you, there will be nothing we can do. We won't be able to fight you. Is that what you want?"

"I'll stop myself," he says.

And she laughs. He is ridiculous. He can't mean that. He can't. 

No.

"You won't want to stop," she says, "You'll tell yourself everything is fine. You're doing it now."

He isn't listening. He can't. The shadow is darkening his eyes again. It is twisting his face. She sees rage again. But she can't blame it all on Dirthamen. He was like this before. He refused to listen before. 

"Don't lose any more of yourself than you already have," she says. Please, she thinks.

"Please," she says, but she wonders, why is she still trying to reach him? It is hopeless. 

She reaches for him. She thinks she can try to pull the last piece of Dirthamen free. It is locked deep inside him, but there's a chance. She was strong enough before. She can try---

He catches her wrist. He squeezes too hard and it hurts. His smile sends a chill up her spine. 

He says, "I'm coming for you, vhenan." And all traces of warmth are gone.

 

She has a headache when she wakes. It persists throughout the day and it does nothing for her mood. She keeps thinking about Solas and Dirthamen and she wants to break something. Maybe a lot of somethings.

Fenris is angrier today. He is curt. He is openly rude, and she is going to strangle him if he snaps at her one more time.

She can't tear Ghilan'nain's magic away from him without killing him. She can't. And right now, she wouldn't even if she could---just to spite him.

"You need to learn to control the power," she tells him, "At the very least."

"I don't want to control it, I want to destroy it," he says, "Get it out of me."

"If you learn to control it," she begins.

"The answer will be no every time you ask," he says.

"You could hurt someone. Is that what you want?"

And Sera presses her hands to her ears and makes fart noises. When Lavellan stops talking and Fenris stops arguing, when they stop to look at her, she gives them the finger.

"Shut up about it already," she says, "You sound like an old married couple. Blah blah. No. Yes. No. Yes. No one cares."

"No one asked you," he snaps. He clenches his fists at his sides and he is so tense he looks like he's going to break. 

"Tough tits," Sera says, "If I can hear you, I'm in it. And I don't want to be in it."

Merrill tries to smile. She fails. She catches Sera's hand and tugs her up.

"We're low on...things. Maybe we could go find more," she says, "Things."

Sera snorts.

"Right, those things," she says, "Good call. Yeah, we're going to do that."

They practically skip away, and it makes Lavellan even angrier somehow. She and Fenris do not sound like a married couple. He's an idiot and she's trying to keep him from killing everyone. There's an enormous difference.

He curses under his breath and she thinks he has forgotten she speaks Tevene now. 

"Stop looking at me," he says, "And stop asking."

"Fine. I will. If you don't want to learn how to control your magic," she says, "Consider the offer rescinded."

"Good," he says. If anything, his scowl seems to get bigger. Worse. 

If they don't make it to Weisshaupt soon, she just might kill him.


	72. Friend of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, nothing should surprise her.

Cole finds them again.

He is different again.

He doesn't hide from Sera or Fenris or Merrill. He appears and he sits by the campfire and he stares while they sputter. But Merrill isn't surprised to see him. If anything, she recognizes him. They have met before somehow.

"Oh, hello, you," she says.

"Hello," he says. But he looks at Fenris and his face is unreadable. She can't guess what he's thinking.

And Griffin is here too. He keeps behind Cole and the other horses eye him warily. They keep their distance. 

"You can't be afraid," Cole says, still staring at Fenris, "It makes it harder to control."

"Listen to the lyrium," he continues, "It will show you."

Neither Fenris nor Sera is impressed. Neither of them want him to continue on with them, but he shows no signs of leaving. Not now. 

And she can't lie. It is strange to see him here. It is strange he is willing to show himself to the others. He is strange and his smile is strange. But she is pleased. It is good to have him along. She wants him to stay. She does. 

They are so close to Weisshaupt.

She pats Griffin's sides. She scratches his forehead, between his ears. He nudges her hand and it seems he is glad to see her too.

"How are you?" she asks and she looks at Cole. 

His gaze snaps to her face.

"Better," he says. He looks brighter, somehow. He looks almost bigger. 

"There were still too many holes the last time we spoke," he says, "They're gone now." Whatever that means. 

"Can't you just try to be normal for one frigging second?" Sera asks, and then Merrill is protesting. She's catching her hand and tugging her closer. 

"He is normal," she says, "For him. For a spirit. We can't all be the same."

Sera doesn't care. Fenris doesn't care. Cole is unsettling and they would rather leave him behind. But Cole doesn't seem to care what they think. He is not trying to change their opinions of him. He is not trying to help. He is here, watching, and waiting, and he is not going to disappear.

Something is going on.

"Cole," she says, "What aren't you telling us?"

His smile is small, but his eyes are sparkling. He is more amused than anything.

"Help is coming," he says.

"What, more like you?" Sera asks.

Cole tilts his head to the side. He looks at her. He stares until she looks away, and the silence is stifling. 

"No, Sera," he says, at last, "There is no one like me." She supposes that's true. Cole is unique. He is the only spirit of compassion left who is able to do much of anything. He has fixed himself.

With the soul of a dead Evanuris, she thinks, but she is trying not to dwell on it.

"I am fine, Ellana," he says.

"We've talked about reading people's minds without their permission," she says. And he nods. He settles more comfortably by the fire.

"We have," he says, "But you are difficult to block out. You are very loud. Very bright." That is what Solas said. She still doesn't really understand what that means. She doesn't know how to change it.

"You have to try," he says, "It's just creating a barrier, like casting a spell. But for the inside. You put it there, around your thoughts, and it makes it harder to hear. Dorian would know." Oh, well, she thinks. But she isn't Dorian and he isn't here to explain. A barrier spell for her thoughts. She doesn't know how she would go about creating one, but she hopes it is as simple as Cole seems to believe it is.

"It is," he insists. 

"Cole, please." 

Cole stands and Griffin nudges his shoulder. He reaches back, pats him and then he's staring at Lavellan.

"We have to go now," he says. And the way he says it makes her skin crawl. She thinks about Solas and she wonders if he's close. She wonders if he knows where they're going.

HCole is right. They have to leave. 

They break camp.

They ride.

 

Weisshaupt is not beautiful. It is not welcoming. It is ugly and ancient and it is clear it has seen better days. The walls are scarred. 

A ghostly sentry walks out to greet them, his voice harsh, threatening, but before Merrill can respond, he is moving toward Cole. He is reaching out. He is taking his hand.

"You can rest now," Cole says.

And the spirit is gone. 

"What did you do?" Merrill asks.

Cole doesn't smile. He looks beyond, to the gate. He watches as Mahariel comes running out, waving.

"He was trapped here," he says, "Now he's free." There is something about Cole and the spirits of the Dead. He has changed since Falon'Din. She wonders if it has something to do with how he "filled the holes". The ghosts of the Hunterhorn Mountains had flocked to him, and then, they had vanished. 

He set them free. 

There is more of Falon'Din to him than she cares to see. Falon'Din, friend to the dead. Falon'Din who ferried souls to the afterlife. And now Cole is the same.

"I am not Falon'Din," Cole says, and now he does sound a little hurt.

"I know, I'm sorry," she says.

She tries to cast that barrier spell around her thoughts again, but she fails. It is still beyond her grasp. 

But Cole smiles. He isn't cringing away.

"It will come to you," he says.

Mahariel is strangely tense. Something is on his mind but more than that, he is different. He is threaded with golden magic. Elgar'nan's orb, she realizes. Because of course. He would be the one to unlock it.

She doesn't know how to feel or what to think. She should be pleased, probably. Mahariel has a knack for winning against terrible odds, but he tricked Solas into accepting Dirthamen. He risked too much. This could backfire. This is already so dangerous. 

He hugs Merrill first. He bypasses Sera and Fenris when it becomes clear they have definite opinions about his hugs and where he can put them. He scoops Lavellan up instead. It is quick and fierce and then he is letting go and stepping back. And despite everything, she is glad to see him. He has one of those horrible, infectious smiles, she can't help but return.

"You've been busy, I see," he says, peering at Fenris.

"We haven't figured out Andruil's orb yet," Lavellan says.

And now, he looks confused. He stares at Fenris. He blinks.

"Then what is---"

"Ghilan'nain," she says.

And there will be no living with him now because he is beyond pleased. He looks at Fenris like he wants to eat him, and Fenris is staring back, ready to hit him with the flat of his sword. He makes a warning sound when Mahariel drifts closer. He steps back. He shakes his head.

And then Mahariel seems to notice Cole. He jolts a little. He looks surprised.

"Oh, there you are," he says, "Have you always been here?"

"Yes," Cole says.

"Well, then," he says, "I'm glad to see you again. Cole, here, has been ever so helpful." He gestures for them to follow him inside. She does. 

"You've met?" she asks. She doesn't know why she's surprised. 

"Course they have," Sera says, "Because Creepy."

"That's so mean," Merrill says. And she is frowning. She is shaking her head. Disapproval doesn't come often from her, but when it does, it is hard not to take notice. 

"Yeah, well, pfft," Sera says, but she looks uncomfortable. She is not very good at pretending she doesn't care.

"We got turned around a few times," Mahariel says, "He steered us back onto the right path. Just when we needed him. I think we'd still be wandering in one of those godforsaken bogs, if he hadn't stepped in." 

But they were talking about Andruil's orb, not Cole. That is a far more pressing matter. Perhaps Morrigan or Velanna would have some insight, she thinks. She starts to ask, but Mahariel has a far away look in his eye again. 

She is curious.

"What is it?" she asks.

He shakes himself.

"What? Oh, nothing," he says, "Well, something, but it's not serious."

"Braska!"

There is a crash. She hears a rapid fire, smattering of Antivan curse words. Then another crash. Then another.

"What is the void was that?" she asks.

His smile is still too tense.

"That," he says, "Yes, that. We have company. Cole, I don't suppose you'd help us out?"

"I can't help if they don't want it," he says.

She doesn't understand but then Zevran emerges from one of the rooms. He is scowling, still swearing, and it seems he has forgotten to wear pants. He is more angry about it than she would expect him to be. 

"They're all gone," he says, "All of them. Even yours." 

"Wait, who do we have here?" he asks, and his face lights up when he sees Merrill, when he sees Sera and Fenris, when he sees her, "There you all are. We were beginning to wonder."

"What's wrong?" Sera asks, laughing, "Forget something?"

The irritation returns.

"Yes, that," he says, "Well, my dear warden, should I tell them or would you like to? They have a right to know."

She doesn't like the sound of that.

"What is it this time?" Fenris asks.

"Don't take off your pants," Zevran says, "You will never find them again. Never. And trust me when I tell you, this is not a fun problem to have. It seems like it would be, I know, but...no. I am not enjoying it nearly as much as I should be."

"I am not enjoying it at all," he corrects himself. And he shoots Mahariel a look. 

There is another loud crash. Mahariel sighs. She hears Velanna this time. She hears Morrigan. She hears familiar laughter.

And then she sees it. She sees them. A familiar spirit is running away from Morrigan and Velanna like this is a wonderful game and it is ever so pleased. No wonder Zevran is annoyed. No wonder, she thinks.

He will never find his pants.

She knows.

"Hello!" it says, and then it's trying to hug them. All of them. All at once. And this is terrible because Fenris and Sera have a look on their face, the kind that suggests they are going to do something drastic. Something that involves stabbing. And possibly maiming.

"Surprise," Mahariel says, "Trouble has found us."


	73. Friend of the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is starting to get to her, all of this.

Cole is still here and she is still surprised.

"Are you alright?" she asks, "With Falon'Din in your head?" But she is worried about the state of their supplies. They are low on food. They are running out of everything again. And there are no markets to visit. There are no friendly farmers nearby. 

He is picking through closets. Looking for things. He already has a huge pile of odds and ends, a collection. Buttons and shirts. Daggers and feathers. Pretty thread. There is no rhyme or reason to it.

"He is quiet," he says, "He is still angry, but it is softer. He knows now." But that can't be because Falon'Din was never truly silent. He was always raging. He was always at the edges, fighting for control.

He aches for revenge.

"He knows what?" she asks.

"Why he was wrong," he says.

She looks at him and she doubts that very much, but she waits for him to explain.

"He took too much," Cole says, "He didn't understand." She doesn't understand either.

"You will," Cole says.

"You are talking about magic," she says, still not sure, "He took too much and it destroyed him." Because that is what the Evanuris did. They were consumed by it. And this is what Solas is chasing. This is what he's going to become. She can't stand it. It is bad enough how it is now, but if it's get worse---she can't imagine it. She won't. 

Cole doesn't smile. He sits cross legged by one of his piles and starts sorting through it, sifting things into bags. Thread and buttons and needles. Feathers, so many feathers. Leather gloves. Silver necklaces. Socks.

"What are you up to?" she asks, "Can I help?"

"You can't always," he says, "I know that now too. Sometimes, you just have to stop."

"You are my friend," he says.

It tugs at her. There is a sadness to his voice. A tinge of bitterness. So many emotions. 

"Of course," she says, "What's wrong, Cole?"

He looks at her and his eyes are dark again. They are sad. 

"You are my friend," he says, "But so is he."

 

She finds the lost pants hidden in the old First Warden's room while she is trying to think about what they can do for dinner. While she is trying not to worry about all the things they don't have. She finds Trouble, hiding, laughing.

"You can't keep taking people's clothes," she says. She takes what she can carry. She drapes them over her arm one at a time, and she knows, she will have to make several trips to sort it all out. Trouble will probably hide what she doesn't get on the first go. She'll have to start the search again. It will take forever. 

And Trouble droops. It looks disappointed. It looks a little sad.

"But everyone is gone," Trouble says.

"Who is gone?" she asks, but she thinks, everyone. Everyone is gone.

"My friends," it says, "I can't find the others. No one will play."

"Your friends?" She doesn't remember seeing Trouble with anyone in particular. Just Mahariel. The "pretty" one. But Mahariel is fine.

"There is only Compassion now," it says, "There is only death."

Oh. Cole, she thinks. But since Cole is not the only spirit left in the world, she thinks it must be talking about the shard of Falon'Din. That must be death. She doesn't like hearing it call Cole that. Cole isn't death.

Cole is Cole.

"That's not true," she says, "We're here. You're not alone."

But if this is fractured Sylaise and a broken Grey Warden, it is alone. There is only a shard of Falon'Din. There is only a shard of Dirthamen. There is only Solas. The rest of the Evanuris are gone and it is for the best.

But the loss of the Grey Wardens is another thing entirely. The world is not better without them. No matter what Solas believes.

"I'll give you something if you burn these," it continues, "I want to have fun."

"No," she says, "They are needed."

"Oh," it says, as it it never occurred to it, "But this is better than pants."

She doesn't know what to say.

"I do not want to see Mahariel's naked ass ever again," she says, because he doesn't much care for smalls. She is not happy to know it. He is not terribly fond of the mage robes Morrigan threw at him when he announced his last part of pants were gone, and he is fussing.

And Zevran isn't making this any easier. He encourages him.

"Oh," Trouble says, "But the Pretty one---"

"No," she says, "Please don't take these again. If you're bored, you should try talking to Merrill. I know she'd love to talk with you."

But she doubts Trouble is really listening.

 

Morrigan teaches Fenris to control Ghilan'nain's power. He finally grasps it. Finally. Cole sits on the sidelines and whispers to them and Lavellan is not convinced they're even aware of it. At the very least, he's making them forget.

But not her. He lets her watch. She doesn't know why.

They test straw men and old pillows, but eventually, Fenris stops making things explode. He doesn't look any happier about it, but some of the tension leaves him. Some of his anger fades.

He stops avoiding her and that is something. 

Merrill finds pretty buttons and thread in her pockets. She finds a pincushion in her room and a dozen sharp little needles. They are things Lavellan recognizes, things she saw in Cole's piles of odds and ends. He gives them to her.

But with Sera it is different. He picks at her. He plays tricks. Pranks. And that isn't like him.

He stuffs her things full of feathers so when she isn't paying attention they all come puffing out. It is a mess.

He replaces her bees with flower petals and she wastes the better part of the day trying to track them down again. He puts honey on the grip of her bow. He pours ink in her boots. She expects Sera to snap and try to hurt him, but after a while, she ends up laughing. She does. Maybe, she wonders, maybe Sera doesn't hate him quite as much as she pretends. 

But the pranks are exhausting. She is tired of hearing about it, seeing it happen. 

She wonders if Trouble is influencing him, because that is more like something it would do. But Cole is his own person. He isn't so easily swayed. And besides, Trouble would get him to steal pants and burn them. 

Cole doesn't take anyone's pants.

He spends most of his time with Mahariel though. And it isn't like it was with Dirthamen/Merrill. They aren't pouring over battle plans. They aren't trying to find another orb. He sits with him and lets him tell his Grey Warden adventures. He lets him mend the hole in his sleeve. Cole lets Mahariel teach him old Dalish tricks and he pretends to be terrible at them.

Some of the mania goes out of him, out of Mahariel. He starts to calm. He slows. He is almost happy.

And Zevran is pleased.

"He is like himself again," he says, "This is the man I remember."

She watches it all and she feels strange. She feels different. She thinks something has changed. But she doesn't know what.

 

Solas is preoccupied in the Fade. She thinks he'll stay at the edges of her dream, that he's stay a wolf again, and it will be like it was after he first left to destroy the world.

But he doesn't and he is different. He is calm. He does not wear the same threatening face he wore the last time they spoke.

The forest and the aravels shift and they are standing in the Vir Dirthara. But it is not like she remembers. It isn't broken. It isn't chaos.

The shelves are upright and there are more books than she has ever even imagined.

"It won't be finished for quite a while," he says, "There is still too much to do."

She recognizes a few of the changes from his sketches. She wonders if her people would be allowed to come here, to read, or if it's only for his people. Is it just for the ancients?

She feels a flicker of rage and it is hard to tamp down. She doesn't want to fight right now. She misses their talks. From before. She misses how they were. 

"It's going to be beautiful," she says, but then she can't stop herself, "And it's a far better use of your time." Because it is.

His smile slips.

"Do we have to do this again?" he asks, "Do we have to argue?"

"Not if you stop chasing us," she says, "Are you going to leave us alone? The world needs you like this, Solas. It doesn't need Fen'Harel."

He sighs. He shuts his eyes for a moment. He seems to count his breaths. And when he's done, he opens his eyes and he is smiling again.

"Come. I wanted to show you the view," he says, ignoring her again. Of course.

Elvhen architectural gives way to dwarven. There are statues of paragons and portraits of Varric and Scout Harding and Dagna. Of Orzammar's king, she thinks. And the view is beautiful. He is right. She can see the mountains, the orange glow of the sun reflecting off the snow. She can see the forests. She can see everything.

"When all of this is over," he says, "I want to build something for the Dalish. Their stories were wrong but they were not without merit. They should be remembered." It is the 'not without merit" part that makes her angry, but she doesn't get a chance to snap at him, because he continues on and he has lost a bit of the arrogant edge to his voice. He doesn't quite sound like himself. 

"It is my fault," he says, "Your People struggled because of my actions. I should have stayed. I should have tried to help them."

"Maybe things would be different," he says.

It hurts. All of this hurts because she had tried for years to get him to admit it. To see her, her people, for what they are, to see their value. And he says this now. After all this time, when she has hardened her heart and made herself ready to fight him. She is ready to do what she has to do to end this, but then, he throws this at her.

Her people were never people to him. He said it himself. He threw them away, not once, but twice. Twice. He can't change his mind now. He can't.

She tries to breathe. She does. Because she can't change her mind either. This has to happen. They have to be done with it. 

"What are you playing at?" she asks, and her voice breaks.

He kisses her hand.

He smiles.

"I'm sure you have a long day ahead of you," he says, "You should wake up."

She does and she is furious.

Trouble sits at the foot of her bed, watching her. She shrieks and almost tumbles over the edge and then the spirit is laughing.

"You're terrible," she says. And she waits for her heart to stop racing. She can't believe he did that, he nudged her out of the Fade. Instead of just leaving. Instead of just going away. 

"Yes," Trouble says, "We are going to have fun today."

No, she thinks. She is going to have a headache today. She can just feel it.

 

Velanna prods at Anduruil's orb. Morrigan does too. They all do---well, almost all of them. Sera threatens them with bees if they push her and Fenris flat out refuses. He glares. He stops talking.

Nothing works. The orb is dormant. It may as well be dead.

"Good," Fenris says, when he overhears, breaking his silence, "You've no business messing with it." 

And then he's rushing away because Trouble sees him and wants to play and Mahariel has threatened to hurt him if anything happens to the poor spirit. 

Lavellan can't stop thinking about the Vir Dirthara. She can't stop thinking about Cole. About Solas. He could do so much good for this world. If he could just stop. If he could keep his people in check. If he could let it all be. 

And then she thinks, maybe they are no better. 

They don't really need Andruil's orb. They have so much power already. And then she thinks of Cole and she wonders. Maybe they have too much. Maybe they should stop. Maybe they should destroy it, or hide it, or give it to the dwarves in Kal-Sharok. Maybe the titan...maybe.

She is tired of all this fighting.

They need to start worrying about food and winter. They do. There are no markets to visit these days. They rarely see another person. She wants to go back to Hunter Fell. She thinks they will feel safer once they are with people again.

But they have to stop Solas first. They do.

Don't they?

She wants to see the Vir Dirthara again. She wants to sit and read and pretend the world is still beautiful.


	74. It's Not A Song, It's A Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is trying to think, to breathe.

There is too much noise, she thinks, and she tries to hide. But Mahariel and Sera are impossible to drown out. They are loud and they are angry and they are always nearby. 

"Go away," she says.

And they ignore her. The fight intensifies. Sera threatens him with exploding shit bombs and Lavellan is too disgusted to ask what that even is.

She is trying to think. She is trying to practice. She is trying to test the limits of her magic so she'll be ready when they face Solas. If it comes to that. When it comes to that, she corrects herself. 

As big as Weisshaupt is, it seems impossibly small. She is going to end up hiding in the catacombs sooner rather than later. She just knows it.

"I'm not touching the bloody thing," Sera says.

"Aren't you just a little bit curious?" he asks.

She tilts her head to the side. She pretends to think.

"I dunno," she says, "Aren't you just a little bit stupid? Most people can tell when they're about to get an arrow to the face."

"Sera," he says.

"You can fuck all the way off, right," she says, "And when you do, you can turn around and fuck all the way off again. I'm not touching shite. Not now, not ever. Best get used to it if you want to keep breathing. Eugh."

Lavellan gives up. She stands. She stretches. She considers setting them both on fire, but then Mahariel looks at her and she knows she only needs to burn him. When he stops, Sera will go back to doing whatever it is she was doing before he intercepted her.

"No," she says, before he can ask.

He bristles.

"I haven't even asked you yet," he says.

"The answer is still no," she says, "Whatever it is, I don't care."

"Talk some sense into Sera, please," he says, "I'll never ask you for anything ever again. I promise, lethallan."

She laughs. She laughs until she cries. And he walks away looking rather offended. But it doesn't matter. She doesn't care.

If she doesn't find a quiet place to sit and think soon, she's going to explode. And wouldn't that just solve all of Solas' problems?

She hides in the kitchen. She settles into a chair and shuts her eyes and then there are footsteps in the hall. No, she thinks, just keep walking. Please.

Please.

But the footsteps stop and she hears an irritated puff of breath. She opens her eyes and she is not alone. 

"I need to talk to you," Fenris says. And he is wearing his "I'm angry at Mahariel" face again. She can't do this today. She can't. 

"No," she says.

He stiffens. He scowls. He looks at her like he wants to shake her. 

"This is important," he says.

"No," she says.

He does not like that. He doesn't. He plants his palms flat on the table in front of her and leans in. He drops his voice and she thinks maybe she's supposed to be intimidated. But his persuasion skills need work. 

"You agreed we'd destroy it," he says.

"I'm busy," she says.

"He's going to end up tricking Sera into touching it and with our luck it'll work," he says, "Do you want to deal with the aftermath?"

She is not going to concede his point. She refuses. But he is right. She doesn't want to deal with a magically charged Sera. She doubts she'll be able to stop her from gutting Mahariel if it happens.

She is trying to think.

Why can't she just sit and think?

"Ask Cole," she says, "They're friends now."

"I'm asking you," he says. And then, he pulls a chair back from the table. He sits. He settles in because he is not leaving until he convinces her. She knows that look on his face. 

She is getting a headache.

"Why? Why are you asking me?" she asks, "I have no power over him. He tends to hear only what he wants to hear and I'm not terribly persuasive."

And he narrows his eyes. He stares at her. He looks frustrated and she knows she looks much the same. But he's out of luck, because she is not sitting down with Mahariel. She's not talking to him. She's going to hide in one of the dusty rooms at the other end of the damn building and she's going to sit there in the silence until she can hear herself think again. 

"Please," he says. And he is scraping the chair forward. He is leaning too close. He is crowding her. As if that will help. As if she'll change her mind because---because---

She has had just about enough of stubborn, pretty men.

"And I said, no," she says.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" he asks.

She tries to flick him on the nose but he catches her hand. He holds it. He stares at it and then at her and he looks like he's going to crawl out of his skin. 

She is suddenly too tense and she doesn't know why. His hand is calloused. It is rough. His skin is warm. Her breath hitches and he hears it. 

"Ellana," he says, and he sounds strange. Softer now. Uncertain. His eyes go wide and then he's looking at her like he wants to---like he's going to---

No, she thinks. This is not...he isn't...She is pulling away. She is ready to run because there has been no one but Solas for so long.

"I'll talk to him, later," she says and she is a little too forceful. She doesn't know what she's supposed to do. Doesn't know what she's supposed to make of this. And she doesn't know what to make of Solas either, where they are, where they've left things. 

She doesn't know how to be with anyone else. She doesn't know if she wants to be. She is terrified. 

She stands and she tries to smile, to soften it, but she thinks she probably fails. She feels like her face is burning. She is too hot.

"Ellana?" he asks, and he is confused, he is hurt. He looks like he's going to reach for her again. He looks like he can't make up his mind. He doesn't know what to do any more than she does.

Where is Cole when she needs him?

"I need to---I'm supposed to---" she tries. 

But then he's the one retreating and she feels terrible. 

What is she even doing?

 

Trouble catches her hiding in the wine cellar. It surprises her. It pounces when she has the bottle tipped back. 

She sputters. She almost chokes. The wine was terrible, but still, it is a waste.

She should not be doing this, she thinks, because she makes terrible choices when she drinks. Every time. And Trouble is here so she can imagine she'll end up doing something worse than usual.

"Come with me," it says.

"No thank you," she says, because she is not that stupid. 

"But it will be fun," it says, and it is pouting. It is probably going to do whatever it wants to do anyway, but it will end up doing it alone and it will be a disaster. Everyone will come to her to clean it up. She knows. 

She thinks, maybe, just maybe if she goes along with it, she can minimize the damage of whatever it has planned. But it is more likely she's talking herself into making another mistake. She takes another drink. And she was lying to herself. She is that stupid. She really is. 

"Where do you want to go?" she asks. She gives in and it is such an easy thing.

It won't say. It leads her through the halls. It makes her stop every so often. It makes her duck out of sight as if they're hiding from someone. But she doesn't know if that's what's really going on or if Trouble is playing a bizarre game. 

It stops in one of the trophy rooms. And it is not one of the nice, comfortable ones. The trophies here are grisly and macabre. There are skulls and stuffed creatures. There are dragon bones and griffin bones. There is a darkspawn head and ogre horns. There is the damaged shell of a golem---she thinks that's what the crude, stone statue is supposed to be. There are corrupted weapons still stained in darkspawn blood.

This is not a place she wants to sit in and drink. 

She puts the bottle aside and she notes she hasn't downed nearly what she would have. She has had the equivalent to one glass. She has not downed the whole bottles. It is an improvement, she admits.

"What did you want to show me?" she asks, "What's special about this place?"

"I like the song," it says.

And she regrets coming here. She was right. This is a mistake.

"What song?" she asks, but she has a suspicion and it is not a suspicion she wants to entertain.

There is no song and she is more than a little unnerved. There is no music. There is nothing. It is quiet. So quiet.

"You can't hear it?" Trouble asks.

And she can't banish thoughts of the Blight and the archdemons and the Grey Wardens. The song they hear, the Taint. She doesn't know much about it, hardly anything really, but what she does know, makes her want to leave Trouble alone.

It can't be listening to the Blight. That can't be the song it hears.

"No. There is no song," she says, she insists.

Trouble is humming along. It drifting from case to case, pausing when it comes to a darkspawn artifact. The song it's humming isn't really music. It is chaos. It is disjointed.

It is terrible.

"The Pretty One hears it. You'll see," it says.

No, she won't, she thinks. And it is time for her to go. She hasn't had much to drink but it is too much for this discussion. She would have been better off having another awkward conversation with Fenris. She would have been better off cornering Mahariel to try to talk him out of batting Andruil's orb around like he's a very large, ridiculous kitten with a ball of yarn. 

"Do you think I'll still hear it if it all burns?" it asks, and it looks at her, "Would you start a fire for me? I want to know."

It smiles. It does. 


	75. Tired of Wasting Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is so tired of this broken world.

She finds Mahariel trying to wash one of his shirts. Someone has written "Arse-cakes" on it in black ink. There's also a poor little stick man being chased by a swarm of bees. At least, she thinks that's what it's supposed to be. It's hard to tell because the ink is smudged and Sera is a terrible artist.

"We need to talk," she says. She is glad Cole isn't with him, because she thinks she might have to yell at him too. There is no way he didn't know. He has spent far too much time with Mahariel to feign ignorance.

Mahariel can hear her tone. He knows this is serious. He must. Because he doesn't argue. He puts the shirt aside, and he looks serious. 

For once.

"Trouble is hearing something," she says, "It says it's a song. It says you're hearing it too."

He stiffens. 

"I'm not sure what---"

"It hummed a little of it, I don't think it's real music," she says, "It's darkspawn related. Are you hearing it too?"

She knows he is because the color drains out of his face. He doesn't answer her right away. He hesitates. She feels like she's going to scream.

"Is it the Taint?" she asks, "The Blight. Are we in danger of another Blight?" If it is, they won't survive it. The world is too far gone. There is no one left to fight.

"I haven't found any darkspawn since the Veil fell," he says, "As far as I know they didn't survive---"

"That's not what I asked," she says. She snaps at him. 

He picks up his shirt and starts vigorously scrubbing it, but it's hopeless. There's no getting the ink out. Whatever Sera used, it is remarkably resilient. And she is glad, because he should have told them he was hearing this. He shouldn't have tried to hide it.

When she looks, she doesn't see anything different about him. The thread of Elgar'nan's magic is still there. The taint is still muted but present. He is the same. She takes a breath. She tries to soften her tone, tries not to yell at him.

"Mahariel," she says, "Please."

She puts a hand over his. She takes the shirt. She tries to get him to look at her.

He shuts his eyes. He breathes. He sighs. When he opens his eyes again, he tries to smile. It makes this worse.

"There's nothing to worry about," he says, "I have it under control."

Clearly he doesn't and she is angry. He is smarter than this. He has to be. 

"I don't know what it is," he says.

She feels cold. She feels like there's something sharp in the pit of her stomach. She was going to talk to him about the orb, for Fenris, but now? She can't. 

"Does Velanna hear---"

"No," he snaps, cutting her off, "No. It's just me. Ever since I---it's the orb, I think. I shouldn't have been the one to take it's power. I've been hearing the song ever since."

He takes a breath and she doesn't know what to say. She has had Sylaise's power for ages and she hasn't heard anything. Not so much as a stray whisper. She wonders if the taint is somehow responsible. If he wasn't a Grey Warden, would he still hear the song?

"I haven't told Zevran yet," he says, "Please don't---don't say anything to him. It has to come from me."

She doesn't like this. Not a little. Not at all. 

"Please," he says.

She gives in. She nods. She won't say anything until he does. But she tells him, she won't wait long. They have to know. They all have to know.

And Fenris was right. _Solas_ is right. They have been irresponsible. Foolish. They shouldn't have the orb. If they hadn't taken them, this wouldn't be happening. Whatever it is, whatever disaster is coming, she knows, it is the end of the world again. 

But this time, it's our fault, she thinks. She can't blame it on Solas. 

 

She sleeps and the Fade gives her Dorian. It pretends he's real and she pretends he's alive. He is a magister and he has turned Tevinter upside down. There are no slaves. There is no fighting with Par Vollen or Seheron. There is peace and the Qunari are welcome in his lands.

Iron Bull is here and he and Dorian are together. They are happy. 

She doesn't want it to end. She doesn't want to wake from this dream.

"If you're not more careful, I might start to think you don't like me," Dorian says.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, and it is hard not to feel this pain. The Fade is a lie and the lie is beautiful. 

"It has been six months and you still haven't seen out new home," he says, "The guest room has floor to ceiling bookshelves and there are ugly chairs. It's hideous and it's all for you."

"Ugly chairs, you say?" she asks, "How ugly?"

"Positively revolting," he says, "I even had one of them reupholstered with plaidweave. It's embarrassing."

"If you absolutely must, you may bring the hobo," he says, "I won't make fun of his horrible sweater. I promise."

She doesn't know why the Fade is doing this. She doesn't know why she's sitting here, letting it happen. Watching it. It is too hard to pretend.

Her smile slips.

"I'm so sorry, Dorian," she says, "You should be here. None of this should have happened."

He is confused for a moment and then he's gone. All of it is gone. It melts away, leaving her in the murky gray nothing again. She is not alone and she should have guessed he was watching.

"Solas," she says, "We really must stop meeting like this."

"No matter what you believe, none of this was your fault," he says, "Please. Stop torturing yourself."

She snorts.

"The Fade is doing all the torturing, Solas, I'm an unwilling party to it," she says.

"Ellana," he says.

But she doesn't care. She doesn't want to talk to him. She doesn't want to talk to Mahariel either. Or Fenris. Or Sera. Or any of them. This is a mess. She still can't see a way out of it. 

She wants her ugly plaidweave chair. She wants those floor to ceiling bookshelves.

"We don't deserve to have this world," she says, "Not any of us."

He takes her hand and she lets him. She shouldn't. She knows. She should yell at him, tell him to leave, or beg him again to stop chasing them. Or she should ask him to help Mahariel, try to convince him somehow. Something. Anything.

But she doesn't. 

She thinks about Dorian. And she thinks about Varric. She thinks about Kal-Sharok and their titan and then a thought is nagging at her. The titan wanted the strange fragments from June's temple, she wonders what it would think of Andruil's orb.

"Do you know what's funny?" she asks, and she doesn't wait for an answer, "The Dwarves in Kal-Sharok and their bloody titan are doing just fine. The world turned upside down and they just shrugged it off like it was nothing. We're up here, fighting over rocks." And they are the only people left who seem to care nothing for magic and power. They live their lives. They do what they must. They haven't tried to take what isn't theirs.

The titan is ancient. Maybe it would know how to keep Andruil's orb away from Solas. Maybe it could. Or maybe she has lost her last thread of sanity. 

"We're stupid," she continues.

He doesn't disagree and she is glad for that. 

"We are trying," he says, "But you are right. We are stupid."

His breath comes out ragged. He kisses the back of her hand. 

"Do you understand why I can't allow any of you to keep the orbs?" he asks.

She wants to laugh at him because he shouldn't have the orbs either. He still thinks he's strong enough, good enough, to control it. He thinks he can stuff himself full of magic to protect them. He is still not listening. 

Nothing changes.

"You can't keep the orbs either, Solas," she says. 

"If it is the only way to safeguard them, I must," he says. 

But he can't safeguard them. Each time he takes more power, it changes him. He was kind when he was just Solas, he was respectful. He didn't hold on too tight to her. When he took Mythal's power, he turned cold. Ruthless. He was content to throw her away. And when he took the shard of Falon'Din, he started to hold on too tightly. And then he took on June's power, and it was too much. He couldn't control it.

And then there was Dirthamen. That mistake was the worst of them all. He will lose control if he takes Andruil's power. 

She loves him. Even now. Even after everything. And she knows. She can see. Love isn't enough. 

She will never have what she wanted to have with him. If she held on for an eternity, hoping, waiting for him to change, it would still be the same. He can't give her what she needs. And she can't either. They are too broken.

"We are all fools," she says. She kisses his cheek. She wants to kiss his mouth but she doesn't dare.

"Ellana?" he asks. He scans her face, looking, trying to read her. He looks uncertain, confused.

She pulls away. There is nothing she can say that she hasn't already said. There is nothing more she can do to convince him. 

She has had enough. 

She is tired. 

She is done with fighting and sides and all of this. They have matched Solas' power---Fenris with Ghilan'nain's, Mahariel with Elgar'nan's. They have Morrigan and whatever Mythal gave her. They don't need more. Mahariel can sort his problems out without her. They all can. She is done. When the world ends, let it take her too, she thinks.

She smiles and it hurts. 

"Wake me up now, vhenan," she tells him, "Please." He tilts his head, a question in his eyes. He still doesn't understand.

"Goodbye, Solas," she says. 

 

She packs a bag. She takes Andruil's orb while they're still sleeping.

She leaves for Kal-Sharok and she thinks maybe it's the best place for the orb. She thinks the titan might be strong enough to protect it. She leaves and she is not alone.

Cole follows.


	76. The Frayed Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She should stop trusting Cole.

She gets angrier as they ride. She knows it doesn't make sense but that's where she is. She is seething and Cole is quiet.

He only talks when it gets to be too much. He tells her cryptic things. He tells her this anger is dangerous.

"You will lose control," he says, and she doesn't know what he means.

Mahariel and Solas are going to destroy the world and she has been helping. Again. All this time. She is afraid of another Blight, if that's what this is---but from the sound of it, maybe not. It might be something else. It might be something worse.

And she is afraid of Solas taking Andruil's orb and using it. She is afraid of losing her people to his. She is afraid history will repeat itself. She would give anything right now for Leliana's counsel and Josephine and Cullen. She would give anything just to hear their voices.

And that makes the anger worse, because they aren't here and it is because of him. They are gone and it is his fault. 

But it is hers too. It is. 

"They wouldn't know what to do either," Cole says, "It is better they aren't here. They can't hurt anymore."

"It isn't your fault," he says. 

It chills her to hear him say it is better they aren't here but how can she argue? What can she say when she already believes him? They are the lucky ones. They don't have to see what this world has become. They don't have to stare as each new horror rears its head.

They don't have to see Solas. They don't have to look at him and know. 

She is too hot again. She is too hot and her head hurts and she thinks she is going to explode if something doesn't change. Cole's voice is in her ear again. _Stay calm, you can't let it hurt. It is too dangerous now._ Whatever that means.

She wants to get rid of the orb and she wants to go far away again. She wants to find a place with books and quiet and she wants to stay there until the world ends again. She has had enough.

They camp long after nightfall. She catches Cole looking at her and his eyes are too wide. His face is blank. She can't read him. 

She doesn't want to.

The shard of Falon'Din is a bastard. She is starting to doubt the change it brought about is a good thing. He is too cold now. He is too distant.

"I am better," he says. But is he?

"Cole, what have I told you about reading my mind?"

"You haven't learned yet. You're still too loud," he says, deftly avoiding her question. 

But he's right. She has trouble blocking him. He has tried to teach her but he is baffling at best and horrible at worst. He is not a good teacher. He is confusing. 

And he is listening. He is looking at her. He is staring with that damned blank face that she can't read. 

"It's going to be all right," he says, "You'll see."

He is wrong. It is never all right. There is always something else. There is always.

She wonders what the others are thinking. They would have noticed her absence by now. They would have noticed the orb is missing.

She doesn't want them to hate her but she knows, they will. She would if the roles were reversed. 

"I will keep watch," Cole says, "Sleep."

She tries. Eventually, she succeeds.

 

She dreams of the Deep Roads and Valta and the titan. She dreams of Cassandra and Dorian and Varric. They fight through endless waves of Sha-Brytol before Solas finds her. Before he shifts the Fade. Before makes her look at him.

She doesn't want to. She has said her goodbyes. 

"What are you doing?" he asks.

He sounds worried. She shouldn't care.

"There's nothing to talk about," she says.

"That's not what I asked," he says, and his voice rises. He snaps at her. He is concerned and somehow he knows she is off doing something foolish. She is glad he isn't here to stop her.

"I am tired," she says.

But she means she is angry. She is furious. She is barely able to breathe through it because no matter what she does, no matter what she says, she can't change anything. Solas and Mahariel will destroy the world but this time there will be nothing left. They will all die. 

He'll never stop. Neither of them will.

"What are you planning, vhenan?" he asks, and she is almost amused. It is his turn to see how it feels to be kept in the dark. She isn't going to tell him. He will have to wait until it's too late and the orb is gone.

She wonders what he'll do then. She wonders how angry he'll be.

She wonders who is going to try to kill her first.

"The people are going to need food for the winter," she says, "Have you thought of that?" She sees his brow furrow. She sees the question in his eyes. 

"Yes, Ellana, I am fully aware---"

"Then why are you still chasing Mahariel? Let it end," she says, but she knows it is pointless. Solas will not stop until Mahariel stops. And she doubts anything could convince Mahariel to stop.

"You know why," he says.

"We had an agreement once," she says, "You would stay out of my dreams unless invited. I'd like to go back to that."

She tries not to look but she sees. He is hurt. There is shock in his eyes. Even now, it is laughable. He shouldn't be surprised. 

"Whatever it is, whatever you're doing," he says, "Stop it now. It can't be worth the cost." But it is.

He has no idea. He has no way of knowing whether it's worth it or not. He is grasping. 

She is not giving him Andruil's orb, and if the Dwarves won't take it, she'll find a way to break it. She did it once before, unintentionally. She destroyed Solas' orb. Andruil's should be a piece of cake. Especially now. With Sylaise's magic. 

Maybe destroying it would be better than giving it to the titan.

Maybe.

Maybe.

"Ellana," he says, "Look at me, please."

But she won't. She ignores him and she pretends she's alone and it is the hardest thing she has done in a while. Because she is still so angry. She wants to yell at him, scream at him. She wants to make him understand, but she can't.

It never does any good.

 

There is something wrong. She knows when she wakes. She knows immediately. Griffin is gone. Cole is gone. It is too quiet and there is a new horse where Griffin should have been.

"Explain," he says in a voice that is too sharp, too stern. This is Cole's doing, she thinks. Because of course, he is still meddling.

She starts to sit up and then stops because Fenris is glaring at her. He is making _that_ face and she has even less stomach for it than Solas in the Fade. She props herself up on her elbows. She stares right back at him. She waits.

She wants to throw something at his head, but he would probably kill her. 

"Where are the others?" she asks, and she assumes they're here. They must have come.

"There wasn't time," he says, "I saw you leave. I didn't think---I couldn't really believe--." He takes a breath and it is ragged. She doesn't know the look he gives her. She doesn't understand it.

"Give me a reason," he says, "Tell me why."

"What's the point?" she asks, "You've already made up your mind."

"Is that what you think of me?" he asks.

She sees a flicker of hurt on his face too. And that is all it takes to deflate her. 

Of course.

She sighs.

"No," she says, "I'm stopping Mahariel from making another mistake."

He doesn't believe her. He stares at her. He waits. He watches her like he isn't sure he should let her talk at all. He watches her like he's considering something she isn't going to like.

"I'm taking the orb to Kal-Sharok," she says, "I'm giving it to the Titan. If anyone can protect it from Solas---"

He cuts her off with a look. His gaze is dark and she is a little afraid again. But not because she thinks he'll kill her. She's afraid he'll try and she'll have to fight back. She likes him. Even as stubborn as he is, even as frustrating and close minded about mages and magic, he is still wonderful. 

"And I'm supposed to believe you didn't take the orb for yourself," he says.

She tries not to let it hurt because she is the one who ran away. She is the one who stole. But it hurts all the same. He should know her better than that. He should now.

"Believe whatever you want to believe," she says, and she almost can't get it out 

They are going to have to fight. She is going to have to kill him and there is no coming back from that. She feels sick. She will hate herself if she does it. She will.

But he buries his face in his palms and he is trying to breathe deep. She thinks he is trying to stay calm, but she doubts it is working. She is surprised he hasn't just killed her yet. She is surprised he's still sitting here. He's still listening.

"Damn it, Ellana," he says, "Damn it." There is something in his voice. 

He doesn't want to fight her. He doesn't want to do this either. He wants to believe her. She can hear it and she is surprised. 

She should have told him. She should have asked him to come along. She thinks he would have agreed. 

"We can't let them unlock the orb," she says, "Both sides are wrong. They're going to destroy each other and the rest of us in the process."

He is shaking now. He is still furious but something is different. 

"We can't let them," she says.

"Vishante kaffas," he says, he snaps, "You take off in the middle of the night with the orb. You don't tell anyone. You run away like a damned thief. What am I supposed to think?"

She is too angry to have this conversation. She feels the frayed edge of her patience. She thinks she is going to have another talk with Cole if she ever finds him again. 

"If I had stayed to run it by the group first, we'd still be there. Mahariel was never going to let me hand the orb over to anyone else. He was never going to agree to destroy it. Not really."

He looks at her and she knows. She has won.


	77. Whose Fire Cannot Be Quenched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't know why she slips.

Cole doesn't return until the next morning. They are well on their way and he is not interested in stopping to let her back on Griffin. She is not pleased about sharing a horse with Fenris because he is bigger than Cole and grumpier than Cole. 

And Cole is far too smug for his own good, as if he's maneuvered this somehow. As if he is pleased to have Griffin all to himself again. He is smug and she doesn't like it because Cole is never smug. 

She jolts when she first sees him and that makes Fenris jolt. 

Cole doesn't seem to notice. Or he doesn't care. If she's being honest, that's probably the real truth. He doesn't care because he is up to something.

"You were supposed to be keeping watch," she says, "You weren't supposed to run away."

He shrugs.

"I did watch," he says.

Yes. He watched Fenris ride right up to the camp fire while she was sleeping. Because that's what she meant. 

"You should always say what you mean," Cole says.

"What are you talking about?" Fenris asks.

"It's not important," she says.

His breath rushes out and he looks back at her. His brow furrows and he is annoyed. But she doesn't care. She is still thinking about Mahariel and Solas. She is thinking about the titan. She is thinking about how much time they've wasted already.

"Don't do that," Fenris says.

"Don't do what?" she asks.

"That," he snaps, "I'm here. I'm helping you, against my better judgment, I might add. Don't tell me it's not important."

She is taken aback.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean---," she trails off. She doesn't know what to say, "It isn't important. Cole's nosing around in my thoughts when he shouldn't."

"She isn't practicing," Cole says.

"Practicing what?" Fenris asks, but Cole is back to staring into space. He is quiet and cryptic and she doubts Fenris really wants to know.

"There's supposed to be a way to keep people out of your thoughts," she says, "Cole was trying to teach me." And failing, she thinks, because she is a terrible student and he is a terrible teacher. 

Fenris sighs and she can tell he regrets asking.

"This is a terrible plan," he mutters.

"Do you have a better one?" she asks.

He goes silent. His back is terribly stiff and she wonders if she's being unfair again. He isn't wrong. It is a terrible plan. And it is her terrible plan. When she fails, she tends to fail big. There's still something of the world left to destroy. She could be risking too much.

"No." he says.

And he sounds terrible. She feels like an ass. She sighs.

"I'm not good at this right now," she says, "I'm sorry."

"Not good at what, planning?" he says, "Yes, that much is quite clear."

"I should push you off this horse," she says, "Maybe when we find a nice fresh pile of druffalo shit."

"Another terrible plan," he says, "If I fall, I'm pulling you down with me." But he sounds less terrible. Some of the tension eases from his shoulders.

And Cole is not just smug, he is smiling now. Not much, just a little. But it catches her off guard. Smug and smiling and too pleased with himself. 

She should be worried, but somehow, it makes her feel better. If Cole can still smile, maybe things aren't quiet so terrible. Maybe things are better than they seem. And maybe whatever he's up to is completely innocent.

But the hours tick by and that good feeling fades. 

Cole doesn't want to stop for the night. He wants to keep going. She doesn't understand the rush and it doesn't matter because the horse needs to stop. It needs to rest. Kal-Sharok is still a very long way away. 

"It won't make a difference if we hurry, I haven't thought of how to convince the dwarves," she says. It was hard enough the first time. She doesn't know what she'll do if they aren't impressed by the orb.

" You can ride on if you want, but I'm not killing my horse," Fenris says, "Aren't you supposed to be a spirit of Compassion? You should know better." 

Something of it gets through because Cole looks properly chastised. He finally agrees to stop, even if he is still very reluctant. He looks like he wants to go on ahead. She wonders if he's going to take the orb and try to sneak in without them. She hopes not. She will be furious if he does.

And Cole is looking at her again. He is staring too hard. She can't read him. She thinks he is right and she needs learn his trick for keeping people out of her head.

"What's wrong?" Fenris asks, when he sees him, when he notices the stare, "What do you know that we don't?"

"There isn't enough time to tell you everything," Cole says.

"I don't want to tell you," he says. 

It sends a chill through her. When she looks at Fenris, she can tell, he is just as concerned. He is just as uneasy. She doesn't want anything to be wrong with him. Not Cole. But she can't shake the feeling there is something wrong. He isn't just different.

 

The camp is quiet. She has missed her aravel. Something is wrong, but she doesn't know what it is. She is too happy to press for it. Whatever it is, it can wait. 

When Solas tugs on a lock of her hair, she wraps her arms around his neck. She kisses him until they are both breathless. He looks surprised and she doesn't know why. She has done this a thousand times before. He pulls back. He frowns.

"Ellana," he says, "Please talk to me." The aravels dissolve and she remembers. 

Oh.

She is dreaming again. She is here again. Solas never visited her clan. She should have known.

Her face is too hot and she did not mean to kiss him. It ruins everything. She is angry and she is not supposed to be talking to him. She had asked him to stay out of her dreams. She had insisted.

But here he is again.

And she ruined it by kissing him.

"I apologize," she says, "I was caught in the dream. I didn't remember."

"It won't happen again," she continues.

But he catches her arm. He pulls her in. When he kisses her, it is like it was in Skyhold, on the balcony the first time. His hands are insistent. His lips are insistent. He is insistent.

The corners of her eyes are stinging. 

She hates him but she doesn't want to stop.

"Ellana," he says when they break for breath, "I need to know. What are you planning? What have you done with Andruil's orb?"

"Why would I have done anything with it?" she snaps and he has ruined the moment. She starts to pull away, to untangle herself from him. He huffs and catches her up again.

He nips her lip and there is a wall behind her. He is pressing her flat, hitching her legs up around his waist. It has been so long. She doesn't know what will happen with the titan. She doesn't know if they'll even survive it.

Because nothing really goes right anymore. It's safe to assume they will fail and probably die. There will only be Mahariel and Sera left to oppose him. He can have his precious world all to himself.

This is not a good idea. Kissing him is bad. 

He is not a good idea.

"I want to see you," he says, "I have done something. We should talk." _I have done something._ It makes her skin crawl.

"No," she says. She doesn't want to know and she doesn't want to see him. She knows if he does, it will be because he has caught her again and she is not giving him the chance. She is not going back. He is not taking Andruil's orb. Whatever he has done, she doesn't want to know. 

She is angry and she has too much energy. She has no direction for it. 

He rocks against her and she remembers how he feels. She knows how it is when he's inside her and it is making her a little light headed. She can't have him again. They can't do this. It always ends the same.

He is wearing her down. Every time she sees him. Every time. Why does she keep doing this to herself?

She sighs as she breaks the next kiss. She starts to shift, to stop this. End it again. 

But he touches her face and his eyes are...she doesn't even know. There is something there. There is hurt. There is pain. There is regret. She can almost pretend it's for more than just her. She can almost pretend it's for the world and what he did, that's he's finally sorry for it all. 

"Please," he says, "Don't stop."

It is barely a whisper. 

"I won't ask about the orb," he says, "We don't have to talk." It is a concession. Finally.

She can't do this but she is. She is kissing him again and she shouldn't. She is letting him---she is helping him slide her pants down, her smalls. He kisses her hip, and the heat of his breath makes her shudder. He groans.

He kisses a trail up her stomach and then he is pulling her down. He is touching her. He is parting her, guiding himself inside. He is moving. She has not been with him in so long, but she hasn't forgotten. This part was always good.. Always.

It is just the Fade, she tells herself. What happens here is unimportant. It isn't real. It means nothing. This means nothing.

It means everything. 

He is going to break her again.

What is she doing? What is she even doing?

She rides him, his hands on her hips. She hates how perfect it is. The way he fills her, the way he knows what her body needs---he rolls her under him and changes the angle. He breathes against the soft of her throat.

This changes nothing between them, she knows, it can't.

"Ir abelas," he says. _I have done something._ It comes back to her when he nips her ear. She is being foolish. She needs to let him tell her what he has done. She is not this stupid. She isn't.

She rolls her hips when she feels him jerk, she feels him tense. She feels him come. She follows and then he is looking at her, his gaze too intense. He has done something and she is refusing to hear it and what is wrong with her? 

He is still inside her when she touches his face, when she makes herself ask.

"Solas," she says, "What have you done?"

 

But she wakes.

They aren't alone. The dream is still too fresh in her mind and she is sure she looks flushed and strange right now. She feels the sharp edge of a blade pressed to her throat. Her throat and not Fenris's throat. Hers. They are making a mistake.

Mahariel looks down at her and he doesn't smile. 

Oh. Well then. 

"Did you know?" he asks.

"Know what?" she asks. She is surprised he found them but she is more surprised he is alone. She doesn't know what to make of the look he gives her. And Fenris is watching. He is tense and ready to knock Mahariel to the ground if he does try to kill her. But if he does, Fenris will be too late. Mahariel is too close. His blade is too close.

But she is worried. Whatever Mahariel is talking about, whatever reason he's alone, it is terrible. She knows. _I have done something._

This is what Solas was going to tell her. This. Somehow, it must be. 

"He took them. After you left," he says, "We were attacked. He took them all."

Her heart feels like it's going to shatter. It isn't true. He isn't telling her the truth. He can't be.

She is worse than a fool. 

"What do you mean he took them?" Fenris asks, his voice too sharp again

"What do you think I mean?" Mahariel asks, he snaps, "We tried to fight our way out. Zevran tricked me. Fen'Harel caught them all. He took them away."

"I couldn't get to them," he says, "So here I am."

Solas has Sera. Solas has them all. Her stomach is too tight and her head is pounding and she is going to be sick. She let him touch her and he knew.

"He won't hurt them," Cole says, but she doesn't believe him. 

Neither does Mahariel because he looks at him and he is furious. She thinks he's going to kill her but then he makes a terrible sound and he pulls back. He sheathes his sword and he sits with his face in his palms.

Solas has Sera. He kissed her and he touched her and he knew. The entire time, he knew. She let him.

She is going to be sick.

And from the way Cole is sitting, staring off into space, completely unsurprised, she thinks he knew it would happen. She thinks that is why he wanted to hurry. He wanted to avoid Mahariel. And this is strange because it isn't like him at all. Cole would have wanted to help them. He wouldn't have wanted them to run away.

What is she supposed to do?

"It's just us then," she says.

"That reminds me," Mahariel says, and his voice is hard, "Dread Wolf take you all, what were you thinking? Taking the orb? Fucking off in the middle of the night? Do you know how worried we were?"

"You could have told us," he says.

Another lie, she thinks. 

"Doubtful," Fenris says, "We're getting rid of the orb."

Mahariel stares at him.

"You are not," he says, "Wait, really? You are. Why?"

As if it needs to be explained. She doesn't know where to start. She thinks she should just shout at him and hope some of it gets through. But then, she would have to talk. She doesn't want to talk. She doesn't want to say anything.

She is disgusted with herself. 

She is angry again. It is worse this time.

"We have to rescue our people," Mahariel says, "We can't go---wherever the void you're going. We have to go back."

"Of course, so the Dread Wolf can take the orb and capture us as well," Fenris says, "That does sound like one of your plans."

"We're going to Kal-Sharok," she says, but she is unsure. They can't leave Sera and the others in Solas' hands. She doesn't think he'd hurt them, not really, but she has been wrong about him before. She is more wrong than right it seems.

He should have told her before they, before she---he should have insisted.

But he didn't. 

And she is furious again. Maybe she always was.


	78. Vir Assan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can not waver.

She's not letting the orb out of her sight. She doesn't trust it not to disappear.

Mahariel is very quiet as they ride. He doesn't talk. He doesn't sing. He doesn't hum. He is silent and he is seething. He thinks if they had been there when Solas attacked, they would have been able to fight him off. He thinks they could have won.

But he is wrong.

She isn't sure what Solas will do to anyone he catches who has Evanuris magic coursing through them, but she doubts he'll just let them go on their merry way. Mahariel is hearing the Blight song again, somehow, or maybe just the echo of it. But either way it is troubling and Solas is not going to ignore it.

She catches a glimpse of Morrigan, flying high above for a while, and she is surprised. She had thought she would have been captured with the others. She should have known she'd be fine. 

And she doesn't understand. Why couldn't Morrigan have saved the others? Why couldn't they have come with her?

Morrigan doesn't join them. She follows a while and then she leaves. She veers off again, toward Weisshaupt. Lavellan doesn't know why. She can't guess what she's doing. 

Cole is driving her crazy.

"You had to say good bye," he says, "It's all right."

"It hurts now but it will heal," he says, "You don't have to be angry."

And her personal favorite, "He feels bad too."

Solas can feel as terrible as he wants but it doesn't change a thing. She feels like a fool and she doesn't care for it. It doesn't matter if it was just in the Fade. It doesn't. He knew what he had done would hurt her. He knew and he did it anyway.

She doesn't know how she's going to endure his little visits now. She wants to hurt him. Just the picture of his face floods her with rage.

"What's wrong?" Fenris asks. He looks back at her and then her face feels to hot. She is certainly not going to tell him.

"I'm angry," she says.

"Solas," she says.

"Everything," she says.

He just sort of grunts and Mahariel is muttering to himself about mistakes and fools. If she had better aim, maybe, she'd try to throw something at him. But she isn't Sera. If she tried to throw something, she'd probably hit herself. 

And then Fenris would shove her off the horse because it would accidentally hit him too. 

 

Mahariel is almost himself when they stop for the night. He is amused. He looks at her and he looks at Fenris and he laughs.

"Is this why you didn't want anyone else to tag along?" he asks.

"What are you talking about?" she asks.

He gestures to her bedroll and then Fenris.

"One bedroll, two people," he says, "I know what it adds up to."

Oh for fucks sake, she thinks, and Fenris is scowling.

"I didn't have time to pack," he says, "This isn't---that's not--"

Mahariel winks and she wants to shove him into the camp fire. Fenris is telling the truth. She left rather abruptly. He would have had to hurry to catch up to Griffin---Griffin the undead spirit horse who doesn't have to stop to rest. Griffin who can ride all night and never get tired.

"Ok," Mahariel says, "Whatever you say." He has a Tone she doesn't much care for. 

"You're very rude," she says.

"Strike a nerve, did I?" he asks, "Good. You're both very rude so I suppose it's fair. If he hurts any of them, if I see so much as one grey hair on Zevran's head, we're going to have words. Do you understand me?"

She does. Unfortunately.

"Running after a titan is silly," he says.

And Fenris makes a rude noise.

"It's no worse than anything you've made us do," he says, and he is right.

Mahariel opens his mouth to argue but then he stops. He seems to think it over and then he's nodding.

"Fair point," he says. And then he gets up. He checks his swords, he secures them. He checks his hunting knife. He takes a length of rope from his pack and a number of other small bundles.

"Cole," he says, "Want to learn how to snare a rabbit?"

He looks at Fenris, "I don't know about you, Mr. I-Was-in-too-big-a-hurry-too-grab-a-bedroll, but I didn't bring nearly enough supplies to last to Kal-Fucking-Sharok. Did you?"

Fenris' shoulders slump.

"No," he says, "There wasn't time."

She sighs.

"Well, then," Mahariel says, "Cole?"

"I don't have to know how to snare a rabbit," Cole says.

"Well tough, because you're going to learn," he says, "That means I want company, silly."

"I know," Cole says. But he gets up. He follows Mahariel into the woods and she is left with Fenris who looks like he wants to pretend she isn't here. Or maybe he wants to strangle her. She can't really tell. She thinks she has made a mess of things again. 

 

She wishes she could stay awake, but she can't. She nods off after dinner and the Fade shifts to look like Skyhold and the throne she sat on to pass judgment. 

Solas looks almost apologetic. It makes her want to set him on fire.

"I'm sorry," he says. 

"Are they still alive?" she asks. She doesn't care how sorry he is this time. If he has hurt them...

"I have no reason to harm them, yet," he says, "Yes. They're alive and well."

_Yet._

That doesn't make her feel better. She doesn't want to see him. She doesn't want to hear his voice. She doesn't want him to be here. She doesn't want him to hurt them. He can't.

"You should let them go," she says.

"I think not," he says, "Not yet."

Because of course. He has an angle, he has something he wants. He won't just let them go. He will hold on to them until he's sure he can't use them. And she knows what it is this time. She knows what he wants. 

"Where is the orb?" he asks.

"Where is you head?" she asks. Lodged firmly up his ass, she thinks, and she's a little sad he can't read her mind. It would have been satisfying to see the look on his face while she thinks all her rage at him. 

"You're angry," he says, "With good reason. I understand. I was wrong---"

"You have more nerve than a person should ever be allowed to have," she says, "But thank you."

He arches an eyebrow. He looks like he knows what she's going to say. She thinks, he probably does.

"For what, vhenan?" he asks.

"For curing me," she says, "Of my weakness for you." It was the last time. It won't happen again. 

He sighs. He looks weary. 

"I can not say the same," he says, "I have not been able to do what needs to be done. Because of you, vhenan, because of my feelings for you."

It does not make her feel better. Nothing will, she thinks. The more he talks, the more time she is forced to spend with him, the worse it gets.

"But Abelas shares no such weakness," he says, "He holds no sentiment for your friends. Give me the orb, Ellana, or I will allow him to do what I can not."

She feels cold. 

"What are you threatening, Solas," she says, "Speak plainly." But she knows.

"They have killed many of my People," he says, "They have proven to be a formidable threat. Should you fail to deliver the orb, they will die. I can not be merciful this time. "

She hates him. She feels it now. She hates him more than she ever thought she could. 

"You wouldn't dare," she says. But he would. They both know he would. 

She can't give him the orb. She can't let him kill Sera and Velanna and Merrill and Zevran. She can't give him the orb. She hates him and she is going to vomit.

"If you want the orb, Fen'Harel," she says, "Come and claim it." She sees him flinch, but this time, she doesn't care. He isn't Solas. He is the Dread Wolf. Maybe it was the truth all along. 

"Where are you?" he asks.

"You're the great Fen'Harel," she says, "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"You don't deserve the orb," she says, "You would kill the last people I care about for a piece of rock. You should be ashamed of yourself."

He looks at her.

He is ashamed. She can see it. 

He is ashamed but he will do it anyway. He doesn't care enough to stop. He is going to kill them. There is nothing she can do because she can't give him what he wants. 

"Please, vhenan, do not make me kill them," he says.

He reaches for her but she hits him. She hits him as hard as she can and it isn't satisfying. 

"Void take you," she says.

 

Fenris looks at her when she sits up. She is still shaking. She is beyond angry. She is beyond rage. She can't stop thinking about Sera. She can't stop thinking about all of them. 

"He won't really hurt them," Cole says.

But he will this time. She knows. 

"What did he say this time?" Fenris asks. And she can hear it in his voice. He suspects. He thinks he already knows and he doesn't really want to hear it. 

"He's going to kill them if I don't give him the orb." Fenris' face twists. And then Mahariel is awake. He is sitting up. 

"I want to kill him," Fenris says. His voice breaks.

"Get in line," Mahariel says, and he is breathing too hard, "This can't be happening. There has to be a way to stop him---"

"He doesn't want to kill anyone," Cole says, "He only says it to get what he wants."

But it doesn't matter what he wants to do, she thinks. He wants the orb more than he cares about life. 

"We can't give him the orb," Fenris says.

"I know," she says.

Mahariel doesn't speak. He stares at into the ashes of the cold fire pit and he knows as well as they do what will happen if they give Solas what he wants. They can't. Not even to save Zevran. Not to save any one.

None of this is fair, she thinks. None of this is right.

They ride.

She sees the griffin spirits first and then the ghosts of the dead soldiers, but there are less than there were. They follow Cole. They walk up to him and he stops to touch them. They disappear. 

She sees them smile just before.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Helping," he says, and he won't say more.

She thinks of Falon'Din though. He was a friend to the dead. He ferried the souls to the beyond. She wonders if that is what Cole is doing now. She thinks he might be.

He won't tell her. He won't tell any of them.

He isn't any different so she decides not to press him for more. If the spirits aren't changing him, if they aren't altering him in anyway, who is she to intervene? And Cole doesn't seem worried. 

They see the gates to Kal-Sharok, and Cole is almost skipping. He walks right up and the guards don't see him. 

They stare at Lavellan and Fenris and Mahariel and they are not pleased.

"You were told to leave and never come back," one of them says.

"That I was," she says, "But I have something for the titan."

The guards tense when she reaches into her bag. They keep their hands on their weapons, ready to strike if she does anything strange. But when she finds what she's looking for, when she pulls out the orb, their eyes go wide and shocked. 

She thinks they can't believe what they're seeing. She thinks they know exactly what it is. Somehow, they almost recognize it. 

"That doesn't belong to you," one of the guard says. And he is staring at it as if mesmerized.

"We know," she says, "That's why we're here. It's a gift for the titan."

She thinks he's going to accuse her of stealing it, but he doesn't. He looks excited. Pleased. And she feels a little silly that she worried about convincing them to take it. She is worried now though, that he's too eager. 

Mahariel looks at her and arches an eyebrow as if to say, _this is a terrible idea, lethallan._ And the look on Fenris' face mirrors it. They both know. She knows. this could go very badly. Why is Cole not worried?

The guard holds out a hand. She is going to tell him where he can stuff it, because she is not letting the orb out of her sight until she knows it's going directly to the titan. But the guard changes his mind. He pulls his hand back.

"She will meet with you," he says, and he sounds surprised.

He can't be serious, she thinks, but he is. She doesn't know how she should feel. She doesn't know what to expect.


	79. Into The Deep Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their guide is strange.

They are under heavy guard and she is surprised they don't demand they disarm. They should. If they are this protective of the titan, they should take all precautions.

But they don't.

The city is much like Orzammar but there are thick veins of blue lyrium everywhere. It runs along the stone of the houses, the walls, the ground. It glows and it is beautiful. 

The dwarves watch from their windows. When Mahariel waves, they hide. He is disappointed.

"Not everyone is going to like you," Fenris says, "Stop."

"Nonsense. I just have to try harder," he says. He smiles wider. He waves harder. He is being ridiculous.

"Please stop," she says. And she is glad Fenris is here because if it was just Mahariel she thinks she'd go mad.

Cole doesn't talk. He still doesn't. He gazes off into the distance, at nothing, and walks along with them. She doesn't like it.

Their guide is a golem. A stranger, smaller version of the ones she has seen. It looks at them and then Mahariel and it groans.

"Of course," it says in a voice that speaks only of intense boredom, "It would be the Warden."

She doesn't have time to be surprised because Mahariel is grinning.

"Shale, is that you?" he asks.

"You know that it is," the golem says.

Because of course they know each other. She doesn't know why she's surprised. He looks like he wants to hug the poor thing, but he is wise enough to refrain. The golem is lit up with blue lyrium crystals. It is spiked with them. 

"You are to follow me," Shale says, "You are not to touch anything or put anything in your pockets. You are not to stray from the path or I am permitted to smash you into a fine paste. This is perfectly clear to you."

"Of course, Shale," Mahariel says, "Thank you for helping us---"

"I am not helping you. I am helping her," Shale says, "The Stone wants your curious bauble."

But Ellana thinks there's something more. She can almost detect a note of fondness in the golem's voice. Perhaps she's imagining it, she thinks, but it is strange. She has difficulty getting the nicest of people to like her, but Mahariel doesn't even have to try. She is starting to hate him. Just a little.

The titan isn't just around the corner. Shale leads them out of the city and into the Deep Roads and that is when their guards leave them. They return to the city with little more than a backwards glance. The titan is further in, further down. It will be a walk. It will take time.

She wonders how close Solas is. If he has spotted Morrigan, if he has guessed where they are or what they are doing. She doesn't think he could have, but she is not good at hiding things from him. Even now, even after Merrill's spell, he seems to know her mind. 

It is frustrating.

But he isn't here.

He hasn't guessed.

They are going to succeed. She hopes.

 

Like Cole, Fenris doesn't talk, but Mahariel does. He chatters on endlessly about people she doesn't know and places he's been. He tells Shale stories and terrible jokes. He almost makes the golem laugh. But Ellana thinks he's just distracting himself, trying to forget where Zevran is and what could happen. There is a tightness to his smile.

And this is the golem Leliana spoke of once, the one who hates birds. 

She feels a pang when she realizes it. Leliana should be here for this, she thinks. But everyone is gone and she has to keep reminding herself why because she is a little afraid of meeting the titan. She is afraid she is going to relent.

Stopping Solas is more important than fear or sentiment. 

Cole disappears. She notices and she jolts a little before she stops herself. He isn't truly gone. She sees the flicker of him, of Falon'Din, when she uses the Sight. He has slipped to the back, and for whatever reason, he doesn't want to be seen. 

Fenris notices. He looks concerned.

"What is he doing?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says.

"Well, make him stop," he says, "If our guide notices he's gone---"

"I know. I can't make him do anything," she snaps.

He huffs. 

"I wish to speak with you later," he says, "If we survive this."

But she isn't sure that's a good idea. He sounds angry and she is angry, and she is not diplomatic enough when she's like this. They will argue again. It will end with someone burning. Probably him. And she doubts fire will incapacitate him.

"Can't we talk here?" she asks.

"No," he says, and the force of it makes her bristle.

"Why not?" she asks.

"It's about the Dread Wolf," he says, "And I don't want to talk about it here. I suspect I already know what you will say." She doesn't like his tone. She doesn't know where it's coming from but she wants it to stop. 

"Explain," she says.

It makes the look on his face worse. 

"Very well. You're going to spare him," he says, "You're going to try to save him, but he can't be saved."

"You're joking," she says. But he isn't. He is angry and stupid and she regrets allowing him to come along. She is not going to let Solas just walk away. Too much has happened. He has killed too many people to just pretend. 

She won't look the other way again. They can't find their way back from that.

"You're not joking," she says, "You really think I would." And she tries to ignore the little voice inside her that agrees with him. She has given him reason to doubt her, to question her. As much as she wants to deny it, she knows. It's true.

"Don't sound so insulted," he says, "You still love him. You would do anything to fix him." His face twists. She reads disgust. 

He is right about one thing. She doesn't want to have this conversation here. Or later. Or ever. It is no business of his whether or not she still cares for Solas. She doesn't understand why he thinks he should bring it up at all.

And there is that Look again. The one she doesn't like. It's sitting on his face and it's as if she hasdisappointed him personally, as if she's let him down somehow. Well. He can choke on it, because she is insulted. She is offended. She is furious. 

"He is dangerous," she says, "He has killed everyone I care about, my friends, my family---they are all dead because of him and his actions. If he can be fixed, I will try but I'm not letting him just walk away without facing the consequences."

"It doesn't matter how I feel about him, I'm never going back to him," she says, "And it's none of your business anyway."

"I think you believe that now," he says, "But I think when it comes down to it, you will hesitate. And that is something we can't afford to do. That makes it my business."

"Well then, there's nothing to talk about," she snaps. And she pushes ahead. She leaves him sputtering alone because it is the only way she can stop herself from screaming at him. 

And why is Cole playing this ridiculous game? She thinks she's too angry to deal with Shale if she notices he's gone now---invisible. She's too angry and frustrated and tired of having to explain herself. 

But there is nothing to worry about. Cole reappears when they stop to rest. Mahariel is still talking. Shale is still pretending not to listen. 

"Don't do that again," she tells him. 

"They can't remember me if I tell them not to," he says.

"That doesn't make it better," she says.

And Fenris is just watching, looking increasingly disturbed by the whole interaction. She is tempted to throw a fireball at him, to get him to stop, but that would make it worse. After a moment, Cole looks at him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says. She can almost hear emotion. Frustration. Disappointment. There is more than just the cold shell he's been presenting to them. It bothers him that Fenris doesn't like him. 

"Good, see that you don't try," Fenris says. It is like Sera all over again. They aren't going to be friends. 

And now Shale is looking. Mahariel is looking. 

"I've been meaning to ask," Shale says, "What is that small thing? It is not like the rest of you."

"Cole is a spirit of Compassion," Mahariel says.

Shale harrumphs. 

"I have seen spirits before. This small thing does not look like a spirit," she says, "It is more and it is less, if that makes sense."

She wonders if Shale is talking about Falon'Din. She hopes that is all. She doesn't know, and when Mahariel doesn't press her for more, she decides it is better not to ask. Shale is hard to figure out. She seems reasonable. She seems safe enough. But is she?

Or maybe Fenris' paranoia is rubbing off on her. If that's the case, she needs to curb it. Now.

She sighs. 

"He was broken when the Veil fell," she says, "He found a way to fix himself. That's probably why he seems different than other spirits. He is still healing."

Cole says nothing. 

"In either case, we shall continue," Shale says, "We will stop for rest the next time it is required. I assume you must still cease all activity and be still for a number of hours each day."

"Yes, sleeping," Mahariel says, and he stands, "Elves will do that."

The veins of lyrium get thicker and more abundant the further they go, the deeper they go. And she is thinking about Sera and Velanna and Zevran again. She is worried.

 

When they finally stop for the night, she is exhausted. She is still furious but the worst of it has burned away. Cole moves when she sits beside him and it takes her by surprise. 

"Cole?" 

He smiles and pats her shoulder and she tries not to take it personally when he relocates to sit beside Mahariel and Shale.

But then Fenris sits beside her and she understands.

"No," she says, "We are not talking about it again."

"Can you promise me," he begins, barreling on anyway, despite her protests, "You'll hold him accountable? You won't let him walk away from this?"

He sounds like he wants to believe her but that doesn't make it any better. She know he has reason to doubt her but still. She stares at him and she isn't going to answer at all. She's going to let him sit and squirm in the uncomfortable silence and then she's going to ignore him for the rest of the walk.

But she is not any better with uncomfortable silences than she is with arguments. 

"You want my promise, fine, you have it," she says, "Now go away."

He curses. His shoulders slump. She doesn't care.

"This is why I wanted to wait to talk to you," he says. 

"It would have ended the same way," she snaps. 

But the anger bleeds out of him. All at once. As she watches. It is there and gone again and he looks miserable. He sighs. 

"I'm sorry," he says.

And it ruins everything. She wants to hold on to her anger, but she can't now. Not when he's like this. 

"I shouldn't have suggested," he starts, and he falters, "I never meant to suggest you would---I'm sorry. I'm not very good at any of this." 

Damn him, she thinks, and she slumps because she doesn't want to believe him but she does. She doubts she's really all that angry with him anyway. She thinks she's still thinking about Solas and that's where all this rage is coming from. This fight is an outlet. It keeps her from thinking about the last time she met with him in the Fade. The way he tricked her. The way she let him.

But Fenris isn't Solas. She has overreacted. He doesn't deserve to be used like this.

"It's all right," she says, "Maybe you had reason to question me."

Maybe he did. No, she knows he did. She has been back and forth about what she wants since the beginning. Even after Solas killed her, even after she told herself she was done with all of it, she let him back in. She slept with him. She kissed him.

She wanted him.

Every time. 

She was a fool. No, she corrects. Is. She is a fool.

That is why she reacted the way she did when Fenris questioned her. She takes a breath. She tries to talk herself out of this, but then she's talking. She's telling him things she doesn't want to tell him. 

She tells him about dying. She tells him about all those times Solas wouldn't let her leave. She tells him about being trapped and fighting with him, the endless arguments. She tells him everything and he is unreadable again. 

"Solas has lied to me too many times. The last time we spoke...well. I am tired of being deceived," she says, "I'm tired of everything."

"So am I," Fenris says.

He takes a breath, and when she looks at him, he is trying to smile. He takes her hand, squeezes it. And her face is suddenly too hot. She doesn't know why.


	80. She Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not really an elvhen orb.

They are deep underground when Shale stops. She lets out a hiss of irritation and turns toward Mahariel. And Cole looks oddly disappointed as if he knows what she's going to say and he doesn't want to hear it.

"You have been followed," Shale says.

"The city is under attack," she says.

"Of course," Lavellan says. Because it must always get worse, she thinks.

"We will hurry," Shale says, 'It will take the morons some time to reach us, but the Stone does not wish to take chances."

Solas is coming. He's following them. He is trying to intercept them. She thinks he was lying when he said he only wanted to stop them from playing with dangerous magic. The Stone is powerful and ancient, likely older than Solas. He should not be so alarmed that they are here, searching for it. 

And she doesn't doubt he knows, everything.

He is broken and she doesn't know what to say to fix him, to stop him. They can only hurry and hope the titan is strong enough.

Cole sighs. He hunches his shoulders as he walks. He is not happy.

"He still doesn't hear me," he says.

"Why won't he listen?" he asks.

"Because," Fenris says, "He has bloated himself on power. That's the only thing he hears. It's the only thing he cares about."

"I don't believe that," Cole says, "I can't."

"Then you are a fool," he says.

But Fenris is wrong, Cole is not a fool.

 

And Shale leads them to the titan.

Lavellan does not expect to see Valta, but that is who appears. She has the same blue eyes as the Sha-Brytol, as the dwarves of Kal-Sharok. And her expression is tense, grim, uncertain. 

"This is unexpected," Valta says, and then she does spare them a smile.

The titan's heart beats behind her and it is as blue as her eyes. 

"You know each other," Shale says. She sounds irritated again, but Lavellan can't begin to guess why.

"We do," Valta says, "But that is unimportant right now. Do you have the seed?"

Lavellan is taken aback and so is Mahariel. So is Fenris. They look at her and each other and they are just as mystified as she is.

"The what?" she asks, "You mean Andruil's orb?"

"No, I mean the seed," Valta repeats, but then she pauses. She looks confused and then thoughtful, "You don't know what it is, do you?"

"I suppose we don't," Lavellan says.She has a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. A seed makes her think of plants and growing things. Andruil's orb is dull and dead. It is stone. She can't imagine anything growing from it.

She digs it out of her bag and hears Valta's gasp of surprise. She gives her the orb.

"Why did you call it the seed?" Fenris asks. She hears suspicion in his voice, concern. 

"Because that's what it is," Valta says, "It certainly doesn't belong to Andruil, whoever that is. It was stolen. It was corrupted. "

But as she turns it over in her hands, her face falls. She is disappointed. Something is wrong.

"It's corrupted," she says.

"Of course, it is," Mahariel says, "What isn't in this world?" 

Valta sighs. Shale looks like she wants to cuff him on the ear.

"Is it really so surprising?" Fenris asks.

"I suppose not," Valta says, "But this is could complicate things.

And Lavellan is getting a headache. She doesn't care for cryptic conversations. She had enough of those with Solas and Abelas. 

And Cole has slipped to the back again. He is quiet and he is staring at the titan's heart and he looks so terribly sad. She thinks she should ask him what's wrong, but she knows. He isn't going to tell her.

"You still haven't explained what it is," Lavellan says, "The elvhen gods used it as a focus. They used it to amplify and store their power. If it's a seed, something's meant to grow from it. What is it?"

Valta looks at Shale and the silence stretches long and heavy between them. She thinks they aren't going to tell her. She thinks it's going to be some mysterious titan secret.

And then Shale looks surprised.

"Oh," she says, "Of course. No wonder she wants it."

Lavellan is going to scream, because if they don't answer her, she is going to lose her mind.

"Your words, Shale, use your words," Mahariel says.

But she only stares at Valta and Valta is the one who finally breaks the silence. 

"Nothing will grow now unless the Stone can purify it and she is doubtful," Valta says, "It would have been a titan."

Lavellan does not feel good. She wishes she hadn't pushed. She wishes she had left it alone. The orb is a baby titan. They have been using them up, stealing their magic to make themselves stronger. It is worse than a slap to the face.

Except for Ghilan'nain's. That one was different somehow. It was crafted instead of...whatever this is. 

She feels sick because Solas was right about playing with things they don't understand. It was a mistake. It was a terrible mistake.

What have they done? 

 

Valta places the orb in the titan's heart. It is a dark spot and then the brilliant lyrium blue is swirling around it. 

They wait. They make camp. And it is hours and hours before Lavellan senses any kind of a change. She thinks it has been a full day, but it feels like longer.

Cole is still too quiet, but some of the sadness seems to have faded. When he catches her looking, he gives her a smile.

Mahariel runs out of stories to tell and starts over. He talks about the Blight and the Archdemon and a boy named Tamlen. He talks about Leliana and Morrigan and Shale. He talks and he pesters Valta because she's a new person and he must be friends with everyone. 

And Fenris sits beside her and doesn't speak. He listens to Mahariel and smiles at her when she looks at him. She doesn't know what to think. 

All at once, the orb brightens. It loses the dull, dark look and it is like crystal. It is a dark, shimmering blue. It is beautiful.

Valta lets out another sigh, but this time, her face goes soft. She looks pleased. She removes the seed from the titan's heart. She holds it in her hands and it glows.

It has worked then. The titan has succeeded.

"The Stone thanks you," she says, "There will be another titan in the world. She won't be alone."

"We will take it where it may grow," Shale says, "And you will return to the surface to draw the invaders away."

"You will not return," she continues and Lavellan can hear the warning. 

"Gladly," Fenris says, but he is not scowling. He is not furious. She sees relief. 

No. They won't return. They have no business here. They have already done far too much damage. She thinks of the other orbs. She thinks of what could have been had they brought them here instead of using them. 

Ghilan'nain's orb was different. It couldn't have been a seed. She wonders if it was pieced together from one. If Ghilan'nain cobbled it together from the remains. And if that is the case, maybe it is worse. How many titan's died so the Evanuris could turn themselves into gods?

She is too horrified to be angry, because Solas must have known what the orbs were. He must have.

If she still had a home, she would want to go there now. She would want to lock herself in with books and her tea kettle and warm blankets. She would want to cover the windows and pretend it was all just a dream. 

But she doesn't have a home to go back to. None of them do. 

Mahariel looks like he's going to hug Shale and then he does and she looks uncomfortable. 

"If you're ever topside," he says, "I have no idea where I'll be, but I hope you'll find me. We didn't really get a chance to catch up."

She harrumphs and pries herself out of his hold.

"Yes, well," she says, and she goes rigid, more so than usual. She turns and looks to the tunnel and then Valta is doing the same. 

Lavellan hears footsteps. And Cole won't look at her. He shrinks back. He disappears and that is when she knows.

She sees the outline of shadowy figures--- _his soldiers_. And she feels sick. She sees Solas.

He has caught up. He has found them. It is too late to lead him away.

"Hello, vhenan," he says. 

He does not smile.


	81. It Must Be Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She will not risk the titan.

He is here and he has brought his soldiers. She sees Abelas, but he is the only one she recognizes. There are too many faces, too many swords. They have come for blood. 

"I hope you brought our people, Dread Wolf," Mahariel says.

"Do you see them?" Abelas asks.

She wants them both to shut up. She wants Solas to fall into a hole. She wants the world to make sense again. She wants to wake up in her bed and she wants a bottle of wine. They can't fight here. Not now. Not with the titan so close.

"You need to leave, Solas," she tells him, "It's done. The orb doesn't belong to you." What are you doing, Cole? Why are you hiding again?

Shale and Valta plant themselves in front of the titan's heart. This could go very badly. It _will_ go badly. Solas does not look like he wants to talk.

"What makes you think it's safe with the titan?" he asks, "How do you know it won't corrupt it, change it?"

And she is going to scream at him because she is not an idiot. She knows what it is and she knows he knows. The titan won't be corrupted by a baby. It won't break because it helped it to grow. The titan is the only one who isn't interested in stealing the poor thing's life force to make itself stronger. He doesn't get to use that argument. 

"The dwarves could decide to attack us," he says, and it doesn't sound like him, not at all, "While we're vulnerable---"

"Yes, vulnerable," Mahariel says, "It's an unpleasant feeling isn't it? being at someone else's mercy."

Solas gives him a sharp look. He is sizing him up and then he is stepping back, alarmed.

"And so it begins again," Solas says, "I have had enough of Grey Warden stupidity." He is disgusted. he doesn't try to hide it.

"What a coincidence," Mahariel says, "I have had enough of you. Out of everyone here, how many of us have destroyed the world? Lets have a show of hands. Oh, just you. Yes, I thought so."

"I'm not the monster, Dread Wolf," he continues.

"You will be," Solas says, "You are actively pursuing it."

Lavellan is going to scream at them both, because she doesn't want to have this conversation here or now, but Shale beats her too it. 

"Enough," she says, "The trespassers may leave if they leave now and quickly. Otherwise, I will be glad to grind you into a fine meat paste. You will not harm the Stone. You will not have the seed."

And Solas is a mixture of angry and confused. He stares at Shale as if she's just announced she's the Empress of Orlais. 

"Leave," Valta says, "You are not welcome here."

And she is glowing. She is bleeding magic into the air around her. She is overflowing. She is terrifying.

Lavellan can feel everything spiraling out of control. Valta is going to attack if Solas looks at her the wrong way and Solas is most definitely going to look at her the wrong way.

"For gods' sake, Solas, take your soldiers and go," she says, "There is no need to fight."

He hesitates but then he's nods. He takes a step back. She is hit by a rush of relief so strong it makes her a little dizzy. 

"Very well, vhenan," he says, "But we will not go alone. You will lay down your weapons and surrender. If you do not, we will be forced to fight you. If we are forced to fight here, I can't promise nothing will happen to the titan." Of course. Why would he make this simple?

Shale steps forward, stopping only when Valta touches her arm.She shakes her head. She tells her no.

"You are a disgusting little man," Shale says, "We should not meet again. For your sake."

"What will it be, vhenan?" he asks, and she wonders what happened to make him so willing to threaten an innocent life. 

"I will not be surrendering to you, dear Dread Wolf," Mahariel says.

"Nor will I," Fenris says.

"You would risk the titan's life?" Solas asks. 

"You're risking the titan's life," Fenris says, "All of this is you. It has always been you."

"You think power gives you the right to decide who lives or dies," he continues, "But you're wrong. You have no right. No never did."

"Please don't try to divine what I think," Solas says, "Clearly, it is beyond your abilities."

Lavellan grabs Fenris arm. She stops him from lunging, because that is what Solas expects him to do. It is what he wants---he will use it as an excuse to attack. He will use it as another reason to take the orb from the titan, the dwarves.

She will not let Solas kill the titan. She will not let him kill anyone else.

And Solas looks at her hand on Fenris' arm and his eyes narrow. It is barely noticeable, but she knows him. She can tell, he is surprised---irritated.

She doesn't care.

She takes a breath.

"We won't surrender," she says, "But we will leave when you leave. Once we return to the surface, we can sort out our differences. But not before." No matter what happens, he won't catch Cole. There is still a chance.

"That is the best you're going to get," she says.

She can hear Mahariel laughing but she won't look at him. She doesn't dare. And Fenris is so angry, he is shaking. 

"Do you all agree?" Solas asks.

"I'm not opposed," Mahariel says, "And if you happen to trip over your own ego and fall into a ravine, I would be delighted to be there to watch it." He grins and it is a little unsettling. Fenris gives a nod but that is all. Still, this isn't going to work. They will lose their tempers and end up fighting in the tunnels.

"Very well," Solas says, "You shall have your temporary truce." Abelas keeps his hand on his sword. He looks like he disagrees. Mightily. Well, that isn't a surprise.

Maybe if Solas listened to Abelas more, he would have caught them long before now. Maybe if he would have listened to her, they wouldn't be fighting at all. 

Maybe they would still be together.

 

Fenris tries to keep to the back, but Abelas keeps slipping behind him. They battle over who gets to walk last and which scowl is the scariest. They battle over who can shoot the darkest looks. 

It is only funny for the first ten minutes, and then it is tiresome.

Mahariel and Solas are worse. They try to insult each other while pretending not to insult each other. For all of Mahariel's skills and talents, it is quite obvious this is a contest he won't win. He changes tactics and starts suggesting new horrible nicknames instead.

"Sera swears by Dread Egg, but I just don't see it," Mahariel says, "When I was in Tevinter, I popped in to this charming little brothel. There was a very lovely man, very flexible by the way, and he had a sex toy that was shaped a lot like your---"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence," Solas says.

"No, I don't suppose you would," Mahariel says, "And that is why I get invited to more parties. Well, that, and I didn't destroy the world. I didn't single handedly wipe out all of human kind. Qunari kind. I guess I can't say dwarven kind because there's a whole city left. If you didn't kill them all. Did you leave some of them alive at least? Maybe the children?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not run around killing everyone I encounter," Solas says.

"Really? Who haven't you killed?" Mahariel asks, "I'm drawing a bit of a blank---"

"Both of you stop," she says, cutting him off.

"You're acting like children," she says.

"I can live with that," Mahariel says, "Children are odd little things but they always let you know where you stand."

This will not help them later. Solas has to agree to release his prisoners, and the more Mahariel talks, the harder it will be to get him to...but no, she should stop pretending. He isn't going to release his prisoners. Nothing she says will sway him. 

Her head hurts. She doesn't know what to do.

"Shut up, Mahariel, just shut up," she says. She regrets it immediately because Solas thinks she's siding with him somehow. She's defending him somehow. And he's wrong.

He wants to talk to her later. When they stop to rest. Before they reach the surface. He wants to explain. He wants her to understand. 

"No," she says. She doesn't hesitate. 

He is disappointed. He falls behind and she walks ahead. They have talked enough and it makes no difference. There is nothing to say. There is nothing left to explain. He has given her too many lies.

She is tired.

They can't leave through Kal-Sharok. Solas made sure they wouldn't be allowed. He killed some of their guards. He fought his way through.

They have to take another route, he says, and she is suspicious.

She thinks he is going to try to kill Mahariel. He looks at him every so often with a frightening expression. She has never seen so much hatred, so much disgust. She wonders if he knows about the song he has been hearing.. She wonders if that's the reason.

When they stop, finally, Solas doesn't listen. He tries to talk to her anyway.

She sits between Fenris and Mahariel and she stares at him.

"No," she says.

He looks pained.

"She doesn't wish to speak with you, Dread Wolf," Fenris says, "Go away."

"It is important," he says, "We need to discuss the impending disaster. It affects us all."

She doesn't believe him. She thinks he is grasping, trying to hold on, but it is too late. They are drowning. If he had included her before. If he had told her the truth or at least tried to. If he had accepted her help the first time she offered it... maybe.

"Mahariel should not have taken Elgar'nan's orb," he says, "Please, vhenan, hate me all you want, but this is not something you can ignore."

"Is it the end of the world again?" she asks. And it is too quiet. Everyone is listening. She doesn't want to admit she is afraid.

He says, "Yes."


	82. No Rest For the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't know how it happens.

She dozes and that is her mistake. She wakes to the feel of cold metal, snapping into place around her wrists. Solas kneels beside her. His expression is grim.

"I am sorry, vhenan," he says.

The chains are warded. There is a wild feeling inside her, close to panic. She can't use her magic. She is trapped. She is helpless.

He has done it again. He has tricked her. She trusted him to honor their agreement and he only waited until she lowered her guard to break it.

She is so stupid.

Mahariel and Fenris are chained as well and she is even more surprised. She would have thought he'd have killed them outright. Fenris struggles for a moment but then he resigns himself. He quiets. He schools his face. He waits. 

And Mahariel looks murderous. He is going to try something. It is just a matter of time.

"You are too dangerous to be left free," Solas says, he looks like he's going to touch her face but he changes his mind.

She stares at him because surely this is a joke. Surely he isn't really doing this.

"Well done," she says, "Even after everything, I thought there was still a shred of the man I loved in there somewhere. I was wrong. You must be very proud."

His soldiers haul her to her feet. 

"You would have made a fine Templar," she says. He flinches.

"Is the world really ending or did you just tell me that for your own amusement?" she asks.

He doesn't answer and she doesn't press. She doesn't want to talk to him. She doesn't want to look at him. How could she be so stupid? She doesn't know how she managed to fall asleep.

It is odd Fenris and Mahariel would nod off at the same time too. They had planned for this. One of them was to be awake while the other two slept. 

He did something, she thinks. His magic did something.

She should not be surprised. She should not feel hurt. She should feel nothing, but she is not that strong. It hurts. 

He has what he wants again. 

He wins again. Always.

He gives the order and he turns them around. He leads them back toward the titan. He dares. 

He does.

 

She can't pick the lock. She was never very good at it anyway. That was Sera. Cole. Even Varric to a degree. The wards glow when she tries. They spark. They hurt her.

And Solas is a bastard.

"I can't say I'm all that shocked," Mahariel says.

"Don't," Fenris says.

"He is the Dread Egg and all that," Mahariel continues, ignoring the warning in his tone, "Next time, when I say we're not going to surrender, do us all a favor, Ellana, and follow my lead."

"I said don't," Fenris snaps.

But he is right. This is her fault. She thought she could trust him to hold to a truce. She knew better. She knew how determined he is, how stubborn. It was foolish to hope.

He is probably going to kill Shale and Valta because they won't give him the seed. He will probably have to kill the titan because she won't let him leave without a fight. She will summon her guardian. It won't be strong enough to stop Solas and it will die. 

She knows. This _is_ her fault.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't apologize to him," Fenris says, "We all went along with it. We are all to blame."

Solas is listening. They are all listening.

"Fine, a fair point," Mahariel says, "I have learned my lesson. Protest louder. Ignore love stricken Inquisitors. Punctuate refusal by throwing Sera's bee bombs. Set someone on fire."

"Will you shut up already?" Fenris asks, "Ellana---"

"It's alright," she says, but she is not love stricken. He is wrong about that. She has learned her lesson.

"Someday, you will understand," Solas says, "This is for the best."

He really does believe that. Somehow. And that might be the worst part. A man who believes he is doing what's right can not be convinced to change his path. 

"You were right about everything else," she concedes.

Because he was. She will admit that much.

"I'm glad you understand," he says.

"When you took my arm," she says, "You were right to turn me away. You said you didn't want me to see what you would become. How well you knew me too well, because now, I wish I hadn't seen. I wish I didn't know. You are a monster. You should have killed me on the battlefield. I wish you had."

"You have no rights to Andruil's orb," she continues, "It is back where it belongs. Void take you."

His breath rushes out but it is the look on Abelas' face that catches her attention. She sees fury, true, but underneath it all, she thinks she sees agreement. He doesn't want to be here either. He doesn't want to watch Solas take more power. He doesn't want to fight the titan. She hopes that's what that look means. 

"I am sorry," Solas says. She hears that edge of steel. He is not going to discuss this. He will not be swayed. He will not hear any more of her words.

"Abelas," she says, "He won't listen but maybe you will. The titan doesn't deserve to die because he wants more power. You're going to have to kill me because I won't just stand by and watch it happen. He has gone too far." 

She hears the shock ripple through them. Through Fenris and Solas. Through Abelas---he, at least, looks at her. He sees her. He truly does.

And he is shifting his gaze back to Solas. Of course. He will not act without his approval and Solas will not give it for this. He will not let one of his underlings kill her.

"What is wrong with you?" Fenris asks, he elbows her a little too hard, "Don't goad them. Don't you dare give up. We can salvage this."

She doubts that. They are going to have to watch, powerless, while Solas starts a war with the last of the Dwarves. He will survive but they won't. Another race will fall because he says it must be so. There are so few left, she will not watch Valta die. Nor Shale. She will not watch him destroy Shale.

But Fenris is looking at her, staring, trying to get her to understand. There is something more---Cole. There is Cole. He is still free. Somewhere. That is what she thinks he is trying to tell her. 

She takes a breath. She tries to stave the flow of despair. 

But it is difficult. 

She is so very tired of failing.


	83. The Stone is Merciful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you touch.

The tunnel tries to seal itself. Solas doesn't seem surprised. He calmly moves the rock out of the way. And his eyes are glowing with that terrible blue light.

The Sha-Brytol come. They attack. They die.

And Mahariel is too quiet.

"What is wrong with you?" she tries to talk to Solas again, but he ignores her. He clears the tunnel again and he is too tense. 

They press on. They slaughter more Sha-Brytol warriors. They get closer and closer to the titan. They get closer to Shale and Valta.

"There is still time to turn back," she says, "Solas, please, you can't believe this is the only way."

"Why are you doing this?" she asks.

"Why are you still trying to talk to him?" Fenris asks, "He cares only for himself. You should know that by now." He doesn't bother to keep his voice low. He pitches it so it carries, so Solas hears it. And when he glances back he sees Fenris leaning in close, his arm brushing hers. He sees it and he is not quick enough to hide his irritation. 

Solas looks away. He tries to pretend it doesn't bother him. She doesn't know why it does.

Mahariel is still too quiet.

When she looks at him, his expression is blank. He seems content. 

He is bleeding, holding his arms up by his chest. There is a cut on the back of his hand and it is dripping down, under the manacles. He catches her looking and he shakes his head. He winks. He grins.

Blood would not disrupt Solas' spell. She doesn't know why he's so pleased.

But it doesn't matter. It is too late to stop Solas now. They have found the titan again.

"You were told to leave." 

Lavellan sees no one, but she hears Valta's voice. She doesn't see Shale either. She thinks she must be here omewhere. Or maybe she took the seed somewhere safe. Maybe she went on ahead. Lavellan hopes she did. She hopes she is nowhere near this place.

"I apologize for the deception," Solas says, "But it was necessary."

"Why are you here?" Valta asks.

There is no path to the titan's heart. It has been destroyed. The heart beats on a lone platform, and Lavellan is glad because it is too far away. It will take Solas time to reach it. 

"He wants the seed," Lavellan says, "He's going to try to take it."

"Ellana," Solas says, "Enough."

But Valta is laughing.

"Well, he's going to be disappointed," she says, "Because the seed isn't here."

"I do not want to fight you," Solas says, "But I will if I have to." But that's the thing. He doesn't have to. He has no reason to be here. He wants more power. He believes he needs it.

"I don't care what you want," Valta says, "You try to take what isn't yours. You threaten the Stone, and she is still far too merciful. She wants to give you a chance to walk away. She thinks you will listen to reason." And the Stone is wrong. Solas has not listened to reason for a very long time now.

Valta's voice echoes all around them. She could be anywhere. She could be nowhere. 

Lavellan has a terrible feeling, gnawing at her stomach.

"Walk away, Solas," Lavellan says, "Please. Let this go."

"I am sorry, vhenan, I have no choice," he says, "I wish there was another way. I do."

Lies. More lies. He is not even trying. There is no reason to hurt the titan. 

"You don't need more power. Whatever you think is coming, you have enough. We can work together," she says, "We can stop it."

But he doesn't care. He doesn't listen. 

"Where is the orb?" he asks, "The seed?"

"You'll never find it," Valta says. She laughs.

His eyes are glowing again. The ground shakes. Uneven slabs of rock rise from the chasm. They hover in the air, creating a pathway to the titan's heart. He and Abelas walk. They order the others to stay back. To wait.

She can't watch this. She can't let it happen. She tries to force her hands out of the manacles, to dislocate her thumb and squeeze out but they are too tight. The wards spark. They stop her. 

And then Mahariel is laughing.

All at once, his hands are free. He smears his blood on Fenris' chains and then Lavellan's. His eyes glow. They are golden, blinding, and Abelas is shouting.

The soldiers try to stop Mahariel but they are too late. The chains fall. She and Fenris are free. His blood should not have disrupted the wards, but that is exactly what happened. She doesn't know why, doesn't care, but she is glad. 

Solas pauses just long enough to look at her, to meet her gaze. His expression is one of sadness. He's going to do something to stop them. He's going to hurt Mahariel and Fenris, maybe even her. She doesn't want to know why. She just wants to stop him. She needs to. 

But his attention shifts back to the heart. She is unimportant. She is not truly a threat. All that matters to him is the seed. The titan. 

'Do I even want to know?" Fenris asks. 

Mahariel disarms the soldier who took his swords. He knocks him off his feet. He takes his weapons back and he is not listening.

There is a flash of light and Fenris is gone. She is afraid but then he is reappearing, halfway across the room---too far away from where he was for it to make sense. He takes his sword back. He kills the soldier before the poor man realizes what's happening.

She casts Pull of the Abyss and Wall of Fire. She casts Stonefist. She tries to follow Solas. She tries to get to him.

But his people are prepared. They block her. They surround her. 

"You are a coward, Solas," she shouts. 

Mahariel and Fenris are preoccupied with their own battles. They can't help her. She casts Pull of the Abyss again, but one of the soldiers knows spell purge. He dispelsit almost as soon as she casts. 

The soldiers reach for her. They lunge. They are going to get her back in chains.

She feels a spike of panic. She steps back and the soldiers catch fire. They are burning up. She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't know how it happens, but they light up and then they are ashes. They are dead.

She killed them.

And that gets Solas' attention. He stops and he is horrified. He screams at her. He pulls Abelas back toward him, away, as if he fears she'll burn him too. As if she even knows how she did it the first time. 

Fenris and Mahariel look at her and Mahariel is cheering. He is horrible and he should not be so pleased.

"That's the spirit," he says.

"Shut up," she says.

She runs to the walkway, to try to catch up, but Solas collapses the path behind them. He and Abelas are alone on the platform. They are going to destroy the titan. There's nothing she can do.

She throws a fireball at Abelas but it glances harmlessly off the edge of the platform. 

Solas touches the titan's heart. He pushes his fingers into the blue glow. She thinks this is it. This is the end.

But he screams. Blue light rushes out of him. Orange light rushes out of him. 

He screams.

 

Solas collapses and Valta is laughing. The sound is not nice. It is chilling.

"You should have kept your hands to yourself," she says.

Abelas tries to wake him. He pats his cheek. He shakes him. He looks terrified. But Solas doesn't respond. She doesn't think he's dead, but she doesn't know. 

She doesn't want to admit it, but she is worried.

She doesn't want him to die.

The walkway rises. Valta's laughter calms. 

"What have you done?" Abelas asks.

"Get out," Valta says, "The Stone has decided to let you live. Be grateful."

"What have you done?" Abelas shouts.

"He has been purified," she says, "The Stone is merciful."

Purified. The orange light was the splinter of Dirthamen, that much she knows, but the blue light. Mythal? She feels strange. If he has lost the soul of Mythal---only June's power remains. Solas is no stronger than she is. 

He can be stopped. He can be fought. 

Solas groans and opens his eyes. Abelas helps him to his feet, but he is swaying. He has an odd look on his face.

"What happened?" he asks, and he sees her, "Vhenan?" She doesn't answer. She steps back. She doesn't like this.

"Get out," Valta repeats, "You're trespassing."

"I'm sorry," Solas says. He doesn't sound like himself. He doesn't look like he knows where he is. He doesn't remember. No, she thinks. Solas doesn't just get to forget. He doesn't get to erase everything.

"Ellana,' he says, "What is this? I can't---I don't understand---" She doesn't know what to say to him. 

He tried to destroy the titan. She is angry. 

There are only a handful of his soldiers left. They back away from Mahariel and Fenris. They retreat. They carry Solas away and he shouts for her. She can't look. She can't see him.

Mahariel looks like he wants to follow.

"Bastard," he says.

Fenris takes her hand. He squeezes it. And when she looks, he isn't smiling. 

He wants to follow Solas. He wants to finish him. But they have more important things to worry about than killing the Dread Wolf. 

"We need to get to the surface before he does," she says. They need to find their people and free them before the fog clears and he remembers.

"Thank you, Valta," she says.

"I never want to see you here again," she says.

They run.


	84. The Rising Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nowhere to turn.

Abelas manages to block the tunnel. They have to go around, they have to divert through another tunnel, and they lose their way.

But there is nothing to worry about. She should have known. 

Cole comes. He is not alone.

He has freed the prisoners. He has freed all of the prisoners. And Sera isn't looking at him like she wants to shove him off a cliff. No. That is reserved for Lavellan and Mahariel. Her expression shifts and she doesn't try to hide her irritation.

"Oh yeah, fuck you," Sera says, "Next time you fuck off in the middle of the night, give us a heads up. It's no fun being his prisoner."

Zevran and Merrill aren't much better. They are just as angry. And Velanna is severe. She is not pleased. Not even a little. She says nothing. She just looks at her for a long second and then turns her attention to Mahariel. 

"We have a clear route to the surface," she says, her tone curt, "What happened?'

"Funny thing about the orbs," he says, "They're baby titans."

"Of course they are," Zevran says, "Because it always has to be something terrible. What else would it be?" 

"We probably shouldn't have messed with them," Mahariel says, and Zevran chokes on a laugh.

"Ha, told you so!" Sera says, but then she looks less smug and more horrified, 'Well not about baby titans and shite. But not messing with things---yeah, I said that."

"Wait, baby titans?" Merrill asks. She stares at him like he's sprouted a second head and that head is some kind of talking Darkspawn.

" Don't look at me like that. We gave the last one back," Mahariel says, "It gets to grow up."

How he can be so flippant about everything---she doesn't understand.

"Ohh, best part," Mahariel says, "Our favorite mass murdering dipshit bit off more than he could chew this time. He touched the titan and she pulled all sorts of pretty lights out of him. He's as weak as a kitten and less coherent than one."

Sera laughs. She laughs and she laughs and she laughs.

And Lavellan's headache is back. It's not funny. It's not funny at all.

 

She doesn't expect him to find her in her dreams again, not this soon, but he does. He looks confused. Still. He looks like himself again. The man she remembers. The one who didn't destroy the world.

She wants to run away. 

"Talk to me?" he asks, "Please."

"I don't know what to say," she says, "You tried to kill a titan. You took us prisoner. You lied to me. Again." About everything. Always about everything. And she keeps believing him. She is a damn fool. 

"I don't remember," he says, "I don't understand."

She doesn't know why she believes him but she does. And that is dangerous. When she believes him, he betrays her. He tricks her. This could be just another trick.It probably is.

But he isn't the authoritative prick he was. He isn't using his dictator voice. He is asking. He's looking at her as if she has some kind of a choice and that is strange. 

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asks.

He closes his mouth. He looks at her. He doesn't want to tell her.

"No," she says, "It is not that far back. It is not Mythal. That is not the last thing you remember."

But clearly, it is. He looks surprised. He looks uncertain. How could she know about Mythal? How? She can almost hear him. 

"You destroyed the world, Solas," she says, "And you took Mythal's power to do it. I know. A lot has happened since."

She does not want to have this conversation. Why is she the one he's come to? Why not Abelas? Why not any of the people he considers people? Why her?

"Talk to Abelas," she says, "He'll be happy to tell you everything." He will. She is surprised he hasn't already. 

"I don't want to talk to Abelas. I want to talk to you," he says, "Please. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I am lost."

"What have I done?" he asks.

Her chest hurts. Where does she even begin? There is Dorian. There is Kirkwall. There is trapping her in his fortress. There are so many things. All of them, she wishes she never had to think about again.

"We are at odds," she says, "I don't think you should get your information from me. I'm biased."

Furious, she thinks, insulted. Enraged. Disgusted. Still heart broken. Embarrassed.

"I don't care if you are," he says, "I trust you. No matter what has happened, that much has not changed. I still love you. I know my heart."

"Stop," she says. This is not happening. It will not happen. She feels like she's screaming inside and she can't stop. She wants to wake up now.

"Tell me, please," he says, "I can feel the change. There is magic in the world again. The veil is gone. But still, something is wrong. The world is broken."

"I don't want to do this," she says, "Ask Abelas."

"I don't know Abelas," he says.

"You don't know me either," she says.

There is still a gaping wound under all of her anger. She had thought it had scabbed over, it had started to heal, but this will be her undoing. It is terrible. She wanted him to be this again, but now that he is, it comes too late. 

He looks like his heart his breaking. She knows because she wore that look so many times. 

"Why do I have June's magic?" he asks, "And why do you have Sylaise's?"

"You sought out both," she says, "You wanted to stop my people from finding them. You wanted to "protect us" from ourselves."

"But I failed," he says, "The men you were with---I recognized Elgar'nan's and Ghilan'nain's power."

"The orbs were baby titans, Solas, where you ever going to tell me?" she asks.

He can't tell her. He doesn't remember. He doesn't know who he was for the last few years. She doesn't want to see his face because the anguish is there. It's making her feel bad for him. It's making her regret...

"What have I done to you?" he asks. But she doubts he wants to know. It is like it was when he left her in Crestwood, when he took her vallaslin, when he broke her heart the first time.

The softness of his tone shakes her. 

"You have changed," he says, "You are so very angry with me. You hate me. Please, vhenan, what have I done?"

"I don't hate you," she says.

"You may as well," he says, "I'm sorry. Whatever I've done, it wasn't worth it. It couldn't have been."

She can't breathe. She can't. This isn't fair. He doesn't get to forget. He doesn't get to look at her like that. He doesn't get to be the man she pined for and prayed for and hoped---he doesn't. 

"Everyone is dead," she says, "Only Kal-Sharok and a few thousand elves survived. Everyone else, all the humans, the qunari, the dwarves. Everyone is gone, Solas, gone because you wanted to bring back the glory of the ancients. You tore down the Veil. You gave us magic and immortality, but it wasn't worth it. They died and you kept taking more power."

"Everyone is gone," she says and she feels like a monster for saying it, for telling him. 

"I don't want to see you right now," she says, and she feels worse. He looks like she has just slapped him across the face. 

"Talk to Abelas," she says, "He'll tell you everything you need to know." Because she can't. This is beyond her abilities. 

And she is crying when she wakes. There is a hand on her shoulder but she can't look. She can't speak. She doesn't trust herself yet.

She needs a drink. She needs ten drinks.

 

There is no sign of Solas or his people. There is no sign of his camps. There are no footprints. There is nothing.

Mahariel is still hearing the strange song. He admits it when they reach the surface.

Velanna is furious when she finds out. 

"There are no more archdemons, you shouldn't be hearing anything," she says. But he is. There is something out there. There must be.

"You should have told me," Velanna says.

"Well I asked if you were hearing anything," he says, "I assumed you would have guessed that I was."

"You are on my last nerve," she says and then she looks at Lavellan, "And don't get me started on you. All of this was ill conceived. You should have said something. You should have talked to us."

She knows. Really, she does.

Cole doesn't offer any opinions. He keeps to himself. She would have to push to get him to talk and she doesn't want to push. No one should have to talk if they don't want to. 

Still, she wishes he would. He knows things. He always does. It would be nice if he could tell them everything was going to be ok. 

Cole looks at her. He says nothing. It is not going to be ok. She knows.

They can't go back to Weisshaupt. There is nothing left. He burned it. She doesn't know where Trouble has gone. Hopefully to one of Solas' holdings. Maybe to his pretty city. To disrupt their perfect society.

They can't go back to Kirkwall. It's a crater. They can't go to Skyhold because it belongs to Solas. They can't go to Hunter Fell because Abelas will expect it.

They could go to Ghislain, but it is little more than a safe house and a few Red Jennies. She doesn't ask but she hopes Dalish and Loranil and Skinner are there.

Solas once told her there are powers far greater than Corypheus in this world. How are they supposed to fight something like that with no resources? With only Mahariel? With only a handful of people and too much fear and rage. 

They need Solas. She doesn't want to admit it but they do. They need his resources. They need his knowledge. His expertise. But they can't go to him. Not even now.

"He's better than he was," Cole says, "He would listen."

Fenris makes a sharp sound.

"I hate when you do that," he says, "Does he mean who I think he means?" And he looks at her, his expression dark.

"He does," she says, "But we are not asking Solas for help."

"We aren't," she continues, because Fenris is looking at her like he doesn't believe her.

But really, who is she kidding? She doesn't believe herself.


	85. To Return a Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be something they can do.

Mahariel talks in his sleep but he doesn't speak Common or Elvhen. He doesn't speak Tevinter or Antivan. It takes her a moment to place it, but when she does, she is confused. It is an ancient Dwarven dialect. 

Mahariel doesn't speak any ancient dwarven languages. Only Common. Only a smattering of Elvhen.

But he tosses and turns and he says, "Alone in the dark."

He says, "Pain."

He says, "Where are you?"

And sometimes, when he first opens his eyes, they are red.

Zevran doesn't hide his fear. 

"This was the one good thing about losing the Veil and finding Dirthamen," he says, "No more darkspawn. No more archdemons. No more Calling. This is not supposed to be happening."

"We'll figure it out," Merrill says, "I don't know how, but we will. We always do." No, they don't always, Lavellan thinks. She doesn't know where to start.

She sees Morrigan fly overhead once, but then she's gone again. She doesn't return.

 

The next time she meets Solas in the Fade, he hangs back. He is reluctant to approach her.

"Do you still wish for me to stay away?" he asks.

She hesitates.

"I don't know," she says.

He looks like he's going to retreat. He starts to move but she stops him. She reaches for him.

"Wait," she says. And he does.

"Abelas has shared many troubling things," he says. Yes. Well. 

"Before you lost your memory," she says, "You said the world was ending again."

"Melodramatic," he says, "The world isn't ending. I suspect---I suspect I was trying to frighten you. I'm sorry."

"So the world isn't ending," she says. She is afraid to ask. She is afraid to hope. She is afraid he's going to lie to her again.

"No," he says, "But Mahariel has made a mess of things. He should not have taken Elgar'nan's powers while suffering from the taint. He has awoken something very old and very dangerous. He is not hearing an archdemon, vhenan. It is much worse."

And now she knows she doesn't want to know.

"Tell me," she says.

"He is becoming an archdemon, " he says, "And as to what he has disturbed, if my suspicions are correct, we will have to return to the Deep Roads beneath Kirkwall."

"You do realize Kirkwall is a crater," she says, "You obliterated it."

His shoulders sag. She can't believe she sees regret on his face. 

"I know," he says, "I wish I hadn't. I wish I had found another way." And he is frustrated. He is angry but with himself, not her. She can't believe he isn't insisting he was right.

"Cole thinks you will help us," she says.

"If you wish for my help, I will give it," he says, "Freely."

"You won't try to kill us," she says, "You won't try to lock us up?"

He is horrified again. His expression twists and she thinks he looks like he's trying not to cry. He steps back again. 

"No, I won't," he says, "I tried to kill you?"

"You succeeded."

It is out before she can stop herself. He makes a terrible sound and he is grabbing her arms. He is staring through her. 

"What did you say?" he asks.

"You killed me," she says, "Trying to take Sylaise's magic."

She wishes she could take it back. She wishes she hadn't told him. She doesn't want to talk about it. 

"The power can only be transferred willingly," he says, "I would have known. I must have. But that would mean I---no, it doesn't make sense. I can not believe I would do something like that on purpose. Not to you."

That is something she doesn't want to know. She was happy enough thinking he made a mistake, he miscalculated, anything but he knew. 

She pushes him away. He doesn't fight her. He doesn't try to hold on. Who is he right now? Who even is he? She needs to get away. She needs to think.

"I can't do this," she says, "We need to decide what we're going to do about Mahariel. An archdemon---." She doesn't understand. None of this can be happening.

"We have time," he says, "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," she snaps, "You won't mean any of it when you remember. You'll be him again. You won't be this."

"It's cruel," she says.

He pulls back. He steps back. His mask falls into place but it is crooked---she can still see his turmoil. She doesn't want to because he is not the wronged party. She is. He deserves to feel terrible, and she does not. 

"As you wish," he says.

She doesn't want to see him again, but there is no choice. 

"If you leave your soldiers behind, we can meet," she says, and her mind is screaming at her to stop talking, to take it back, "Hunter Fell. Or bring Abelas, I don't care. But any more than that and I'm calling the whole thing off." She should not be doing this. She shouldn't try to trust him again. She shouldn't give him a chance.

But an archdemon. Mahariel. What else can she do? She feels out of her depth. Lost. 

"Of course," he says, "I understand." But he doesn't. Not really. And neither does she.

 

Fenris pulls her aside while she's still trying to think of a way to tell them. From the way his shoulders hunch, she thinks, something is bothering him. He couldn't have guessed what she's planning. It must be something else.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"It would be quicker to say what isn't wrong," he says, "Have you spoken to _him_?"

Of course. He should not be this quick to guess her thoughts.

"I have," she says.

"And?" he asks. He crosses his arms over his chest. He waits. She is not ready for this conversation. She already knows what he's going to say. The only question is how hard he's going to refuse, how vehement he'll be.

"He truly doesn't remember anything after he took Mythal's powers," she says, "That's just after we defeated Corypheus. Years, Fenris, he has lost years."

"Convenient," he says, "Do you believe him?"

"I do," she says.

"He hasn't changed," he says, "Just because he lost a few of his memories, don't think for a moment he isn't the same man he was." His tone is too sharp. It is accusing.

"I know," she says.

"Do you?"

It is hard not to take offense when he looks at her like that, when he talks to her like that.

"What are you trying to say?" she asks," Speak plainly, Fenris." Or better yet, don't speak at all. This will only lead to an argument, and it is a waste of time and energy.

"You know what I mean," he snaps, "You are thinking how lucky this is. He's himself again. There is hope he'll finally do the right thing." He is wrong. She isn't. 

"But he was always himself, you just didn't see it," he says.

It hurts. She doesn't want to admit it, but it does. And her instinct is to lash out at him, to deny it, to argue, but what can she say? Solas lied to her from the beginning. The only thing he was truthful about was his name.

A lie by omission is still a lie.

"Go away," she snaps.

"I will not," he says, "I'm not saying this to hurt you, but you need to understand--"

"I was there. I think I understand just fine," she says.

Again, he pushes. He is in her space. He is horrible and he is staring. He has no sympathy for what she has been through, for what she has seen, for what she has endured.

"Don't give him the chance to hurt you," he says, his voice softens but it only makes her angrier.

He looks at her as if it was all her fault. As if she let it all happen. 

"Void take you," she says.

"Ellana," he says. But she is not in the mood. She doesn't want to hear any more lectures. She doesn't. 

 

She goes hunting with Sera, mostly to clear her head, and that is where Trouble finds them. The spirit is in an odd mood. It is pleased but not. It is angry but it is not. She doesn't know how to describe it or how to respond.

Sera wants to put an arrow in it.

"You left me," it says, "You all left me again."

"Why are you following us?" Sera asks, "Go away."

"No," Trouble says and it grins.

"The song is quieter when the Pretty One is far away," it says, "I want to hear it."

"Nuh uh, no, not happening," Sera says, "Take care of this or I will."

She leaves her standing alone with Trouble. She doesn't answer Lavellan's entreaties to stop. She doesn't come back.

Lavellan takes it back to camp because where else can she lead it? It has been harmless enough so far. A foolish thought, she knows, but it is the only comfort she can find. Trouble is unsettling. More so now. 

Mahariel looks vexed when it squeezes between him and Zevran. Merrill looks concerned and so does Velanna. And Fenris is still furious. 

"Hello," it says.

"Goodbye," Fenris says.

Trouble laughs. It wraps itself around Zevran and Mahariel. It tries to coax them to sing. 

"Please," it says.

"Why did you bring it here?" Fenris asks.

He is still angry about earlier and she is still having difficulty convincing herself to care. And Cole looks like he agrees with Fenris. His expression is just as tight but less furious. 

"Don't look at me like that. What was I supposed to do?" she asks.

"Leave it where you found it," Fenris says, and there is something on his face, something heavy---something like sorrow, "You're worse than...you're worse than Hawke ever was, always bringing home dangerous people. If I didn't know better, I'd think you enjoy watching it all backfire."

It sits like a stone in her belly. He can't possibly mean that.

"Enough," Velanna says, "I am not going to listen to you two bicker all the way to Ghislain."

He mutters something under his breath. He turns away. He sits as far from Trouble as he can. He cleans his sword. He cleans it again. And then a third time. And she realizes she should not be paying any attention. It doesn't matter what he does with his free time. She doesn't care.

She doesn't.

He's going to be angrier when she suggests they go to Hunter Fell to meet with Solas. They probably all will be. 

"It is a good plan," Cole says.

"What is?" Fenris asks, but then he's looking over his shoulder at her instead of at Cole.

"Will you stay out of my mind already?" she asks.

"I can't," Cole says, "I try. You're still too loud."

"Solas wants to help us," he continues.

"No," Fenris says

"I highly doubt he does," Velanna says.

And Mahariel laughs. It sets off Trouble. It makes the rest of them cringe.

"Of course the Dread Wolf wants to help," Mahariel says when he catches his breath, "He wants to help me right over a cliff. Did he promise to come alone? Did he offer to bring a bottle of two hundred year old Tevinter wine? Oh, lethallan, you are a very pretty young thing and that is the oldest line ever written."

She is red faced again, she can feel it. She knows it isn't the best idea. She isn't stupid. There is no need for him to react like this.

Maybe she should be the one to help him over a cliff. If he can't be polite, maybe she will. 

"Do you have a better idea?" she asks, "Mr. I'm-About-To-Usher-In-The-End-Of-The-World?"

"Probably," he says, "I could suggest ignoring it and it would still be a better plan than seeking out the Dread Wolf."

Zevran makes a strange sound. He is furious. She looks at him but he is glaring at Mahariel. He is prying himself out of Trouble's grasp. 

"You do not get to be dismissive of the first and only real plan anyone has suggested," Zevran says, "The Dread Wolf does not remember the last few years, correct? It is not the best plan, but it is good enough to consider. We are not ignoring it."

"Oh, Zevran," Mahariel says.

"No, either you think of a better plan or you don't, but you will not do nothing," Zevran says, and then he's moving away.

Some of the smug arrogance fades from Mahariel's face. He bats Trouble away and starts to follow, but Zevran rounds on him. He snaps at him, he's muttering in Antivan, and then he's settling down on the opposite side of the camp.

"Fine," Mahariel says, "We can consider it."

Velanna sighs. 

"This is going to end terribly," she says.

 

Cole wants to stop in Perendale. He insists.

"Sometimes I think you're trying to get us killed," Fenris says.

The city is as they left it, silent and wrong. More of the dead have gathered on the other side of the gate. She doesn't see the shattered spirit of love but she doesn't doubt it's there somewhere, waiting.

"What's wrong?" Velanna asks.

"There's nothing in Perendale but the undead and broken spirits," Lavellan says, "Last time, we almost didn't make it out." The broken spirit of love and it's terrible humming, calling the undead, coming up from the mines. She gets chills just thinking about it.

"It got in our heads," Merrill says, "It stopped us from thinking. We couldn't fight."

"It sounds like fun," Trouble says. It tugs at Mahariel's hair. 

"No, it isn't," Cole says, "They need help. We can't leave them like this. They're in pain."

But they tried to kill them. They surrounded them at night and they nearly succeeded. She doesn't know how Cole thinks they can help, but she knows, it isn't wise to linger.

"If we do, I'll need to cast a spell to protect your minds," Merrill says, "It's too dangerous otherwise."

"The answer's still no," Sera says, "I'm not going in."

Merrill looks disappointed.

"But if we can help---" she says.

"Nope," Sera says, cutting her off, "The dead, I can handle, but broken, creepy spirits mucking about in my head is a no."

"But the spell would---"

"No, Sweet," Sera says, "No."

Merrill lets out a long breath. She frowns. She looks at Cole as if he knows what will convince her. He shrugs. There is nothing he could say that would make Sera listen. They are not friends.

"I helped all of you," Cole says, and his voice is soft, "I never ask for anything in return. Never."

"Just this once," he says, "Help me."

"Please," he says.

It is not like him to ask for anything. Only once before, when he wanted protection, when he asked Solas to bind him. He has always been so impossibly selfless. And he is right. He freed Sera and the rest of them. He told them where to find Andruil's orb. He helped Lavellan escape how many times? 

Just this once, they can try to help. She is going to regret this. She knows.

She sighs.

"Very well. I'll help you, Cole," she says, "But if you get me killed---"

"I won't," he says. He smiles.

"You are out of your damn mind," Fenris says.

He isn't wrong.


	86. It Leaves A Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole risks much.

Sera agrees to go along when Merrill refuses to stay behind. She allows Merrill to cast her spell but only after much grumbling. 

The dead are clustered at the gate again. They are slow to turn, slow to notice intruders. Lavellan wonders if it's because they've come during the day. It was worse at night.

But at least now, they know what to expect.

"We are not splitting up this time," Lavellan says.

"We'd cover more ground if we did---" Mahariel says.

"No," Fenris says.

Mahariel looks annoyed, but she doesn't care. There are too many corpses. Perendale is not quite big enough to have accommodated all of them in life. Some of the bodies are little more than bones---they have been dead far longer then the end of the world. Love's influence extends too far, she thinks, because some must have clawed their way out of the grave. They are the ancient dead.

"Do you remember Redcliffe, mi amor?" Zevran asks.

"How could I ever forget?" Mahariel asks, "The smell was burned into my memory."

"Somehow, this is worse," Zevran says.

Sera just sort of snorts.

"Always something nasty there," she says, "Walking corpses, time magic, demons---eugh. And Dread Egg wipes Kirkwall off the map instead. Go figure. Dumb arse. Redcliffe is cursed not frigging Kirkwall."

"Probably," Mahariel says, "Wait, you said time magic---"

"No, don't," Lavellan says, "It's horrible and we're not trying it. Ever."

"Once was enough, thank you," she continues. She doesn't like to think about Redcliffe. Or the destruction caused by Alexius. It is too close to the surface, too raw, and it is too tempting. To try to go back and change things would only lead to more failure. She can't imagine making it worse, but she knows she would. 

It is dark by the time Cole leads them into the mines, through the narrow tunnels, choked with dust. It is dark before they find the spirits.

 

She counts four, all glowing with the same eerie orange light. They are broken and humming. They are flickering with sorrow and rage and hatred. Cole is not afraid. 

She doesn't understand. He should be. She is. Even knowing they can't get into her head or influence her makes no difference. 

"When we're done with it all, don't expect me to go playing with dead things again," Sera says, "This is your one thing. I've had enough."

"The dead are supposed to stay dead," she continues, "Aren't supposed to get up and move around. Wasn't the whole point of breaking the Veil meant to put an end to demons and shite? Dread Egg can't even get that right."

Lavellan doesn't disagree, but it's hardly Solas' fault the dead keep coming back. Well, not entirely---she knows Love probably shattered because of what he did, but he didn't make it reanimate corpses. 

The spirits look at them. They come too close. They lash out.

Mahariel strikes one of them, deflecting their blow back on them. And Cole is catching his arm, pulling him back.

"No, we're here to help," he says.

"Well, I'm not here to die, da'len," Mahariel says, "Whatever you mean to do, you'd best do it."

They are surrounded, pressed back to back. Merrill, Velanna, and Lavellan alternate casting barrier spells and the elemental wall spells. It holds the bulk of the dead back for now, but she doesn't know how long it will last. Every spell they cast knocks dust and rocks loose from the ceiling and walls. It clouds the air. It makes it hard to see, to breathe.

The spirits of Love are impatient. They are furious. They are lusting for blood.

Fenris pulls her back when one of them tries to reach through the wall of fire. It just misses her face. She feels the heat of it in the air.

"Careful," he snaps, and he knocks it back. He clips it with his sword.

The spirit shrieks in pain. It tries to resume the terrible humming. It fails.

She can feel its frustration---the humming should be subduing them, it should make them complacent. It doesn't understand. It doesn't and it is losing control.

"Thank you," she mutters, and she feels silly for nearly getting hurt.

She casts wall of fire again, strengthens it, but she doesn't know how much longer they can afford to keep this up. The tunnels are narrow. The support beams are not invulnerable. Fire and ice are too damaging.

She tries to remember what she did to Solas' soldiers, how she felt, but there is a wild element to Sylaise's magic. It is hard to recapture the feeling. More so when the damned spirits are humming at her. 

"Don't hurt them," Cole insists.

"Then do something," she snaps.

"I'm trying," he says, "They can't hear me."

Sera makes a rude noise.

"Wish I couldn't hear you," she mutters and she ignores his plea. She fires an arrow into the face of one of the spirits. A killing blow, normally, but not now. The arrow burns up and the arrowhead passes through it, harmlessly.

"We can't do this forever, Cole," Velanna says, "We have to try something else."

"If they won't hear you," she continues, "Find another way. Make them hear you."

Lavellan doesn't know what that way might be. The damned things only seem to care about killing and humming. She doubts they can all hold hands and sing happy songs to appease them. 

And Cole is the picture of misery. She can tell he's straining---this, whatever he's doing, is taking it's toll.

He flickers and he is almost like he was before---when he was splintered. She sees something dark. She sees something close to despair. He is shaking.

If they fail, they could lose more than the spirits of Love. They could lose Cole. 

"Take a breath," she tells him, "You can do this." She doesn't know if he can hear her, but he must have, because he stands a little taller. She sees his focus sharpen.

All at once, the spirits scream. They snap together. They merge. There are two instead of four and their light changes. They are blue instead of orange. She can see a thin pulsing of pink, like a seam running through them. They are whole again. 

Cole starts to slump but Velanna catches him.

The dead collapse. 

Cole has done it. He has won.

 

The spirits of Love don't drift away. They stay in Perendale but the ghosts come to Cole. They pass through him. They vanish and he still won't explain where they're going. Or why. He only says they can rest.

She thinks of the story of Falon'Din ferrying souls to the beyond. Cole still carries the shard of his soul. Perhaps he inherited more than just that.

They almost lost him, she thinks, and it is terrifying. He almost shattered again.

She is tired---they all are. 

The air still smells like dead and smoke. They bed down in one of the houses---it isn't ideal, but it is clean. Lavellan is almost the last to turn in.

There is Cole though---he doesn't sleep. He lingers near one of the spirits of Love. He disappears into the city. He will be back by morning. Velanna retires first, and then Mahariel and Zevran. Sera and Merrill are next. And she is left alone in another awkward silence with Fenris.

"It went better than it should have," he says, "We were lucky."

"Yes," she says. 

He sits beside her and he is just a little too close. His arm brushes hers. She can feel the warmth of his skin---it makes her want to lean into him. It is...nice.

"We might not be so lucky the next time," he continues. He looks at her, stares pointedly---it's as if he expects her to say something, concede something. She just wants to sit in silence. She doesn't want to think about anything.

"Yes," she says again. She doesn't know what he wants to hear. It could have been worse. True. They could have failed. Absolutely. 

He frowns.

"Is that all you want to say?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. Please stop talking, she thinks. Please.

And it must show on her face, because his expression shifts. He looks angry again. It's directed at her. Again.

"I can't read your mind, Fenris," she says, "If you want me to know something, you have to tell me."

He sighs. He leans forward. He stares at the floor in front of him. 

"Ellana," he says, "This meeting with the Dread Wolf---it's a trap. You know it is."

"Fenris," she says. She feels the jolt---the unwanted surprise. She doesn't want to talk about Solas or Hunter Fell or any of it. 

"No, it is," he says, "You can't keep lying to yourself---"

"No, stop," she says, and it is hard to keep her voice steady, "I don't want to talk about this."

"We need to talk about this," he says. He insists. Because of course he does. 

She starts to stand but he catches her wrist. He tugs her back down and she is more surprised than anything. He doesn't let go. He should have by now.

"We don't need his help," he says, "We've done just fine on our own." He is wrong. They have not done just fine on their own. It has been one disaster after the next. She doesn't want Solas' help, but they need him. If Mahariel becomes an archdemon---she doesn't know what they'll do. 

"How many times has he lied to you?" he asks.

Too many times. He knows as well as she does. Every chance she has given Solas has been a mistake. She can't weather another lie. She has seen the Solas she remembers, the man she fell in love with, and the thought of it all being a trick is too much to bear. 

She doesn't know why Fenris thinks this conversation needs to happen now, but her patience is almost at an end. She doesn't need anyone to tell her accepting help from Solas is a bad idea. She knows, but their options are limited. She can't afford to refuse help when it's offered. Not even Solas' help. Not even his.

She wishes she could. 

"I'm not stupid," she says, "I know---"

"I didn't say you're stupid," he snaps. 

"The implication was there," she says. 

"There was no implication," he says, his voice rising again.

"Then what are you saying?" she asks, because that is what it feels like he's staying. She is too stupid to know when she's being lied to. She is so foolish she can't see Solas for who he is---she can't learn from the past. She needs someone to remind her. Him. She needs him to tell her when she's making a mistake.

No, she thinks. She absolutely does not. 

Fenris knows this is a sore subject. He knows she doesn't want to talk about it, and still he pushes. 

Always, he pushes.

"Fasta vass---I'm saying I won't watch him hurt you again," he says, and there is something in his voice. 

"Then don't watch," she says, but it comes out ragged, "If I want to make a fool of myself, I damn well will." She starts to pull away. She thinks she's going to retreat---go to another part of town, find her own quiet. Away from him. Away from whatever the hell this is, but he stops her.

"Don't," he says, and there is something in his voice. It makes her pause. He is staring again. He is looking at her and his expression is indecipherable. Again.

She can't move. There is something in his eyes and she can't move. 

"What?" she asks.

He kisses her. He tangles his fingers in her hair and coaxes her head back. He presses his lips to hers and it is gentle despite the surprise of it. It is soft. He kisses her and she forgets what she should say. She forgets all of it.

What even is this? 

She blinks and he's pulling back. He's standing, moving away.

"That was foolish. I'm sorry," he says. His voice is too rough. He won't look at her.

"Fenris," she says, she tries.

But he doesn't stop. He doesn't listen. He leaves her sitting here alone. 

And she is so very confused.


	87. A Strange Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't understand him.

She finds Trouble with Cole and the spirits of Love. She needs to get some sleep before they go, but she can't. Her mind won't quiet.

"You're not supposed to be here," he tells it. 

"I don't want to go away," Trouble says, "I like to be seen."

"It's dangerous where we're going," Cole insists, but then he sees they aren't alone. He stops. He looks at her and Trouble laughs. He leaves whatever else he meant to say unspoken.

The spirits of Love are humming, in two part harmony. She feels warm just listening to it. She feels happy. She feels calm. They are such a pretty shade of blue, she thinks.

One of the spirits drifts closer. It smiles. It tries to wrap around her but it isn't solid enough to do that. It ends up sort of passing through her, and then, it looks disappointed.

Cole sighs. He rubs his forehead. He looks like he's hurting.

"Are you ok?" she asks.

"They aren't strong enough to help," he says, "But they won't listen. They keep trying. They could hurt themselves again."

"No, Cole," she says, "Are _you_ alright?" But the thought of the spirits of Love breaking is unsettling. 

"Yes," he says. She thinks there is a note of irritation in his voice. He is tense. Frustrated.

"You don't seem alright to me," she says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he says.

"Yes," he says.

"I don't know," he says.

He hunches forward and glares at Trouble when it tries to take his hat. He bats Trouble away.

"No one listens," he says, "I don't understand."

"What do you mean?" she asks. 

The silence feels heavy, unpleasant. 

"I could help them if they'd listen," he says at last. 

Oh, she thinks. Of course. 

"You aren't responsible for fixing everyone's problems," she says, "You have to let them make their own mistakes." As difficult as it is.

"Help when it's wanted, don't try to force it," she continues.

She sees the flicker of despair and she doesn't like it. It doesn't suit Cole. He should be happy. But she can't force him to be. She can't change him and she wouldn't, even if she could. 

"It's always worse when they don't listen," he says. Somehow, she knows he's thinking of Solas. 

"Cole," she says, but he cuts her off.

"You should always say what you mean," he says and then he's gone. He vanishes---probably still there, probably still watching, she thinks, and she tries not to feel hurt. It isn't personal. 

The spirit of Love sends another rush of warmth through her. 

.

She finally falls asleep and she is alone. For a while anyway. She sits at a table in Cabot's bar and slowly, one by one, people start to filter in. 

Varric is the first. He sits at one of the larger tables. He sets a stack of loose leaf paper and his journals and ink wells and quills out in front of him. It takes up the whole space. If anyone decides to sit with him, they'll have to hold their drinks.

Dorian and Josephine are next. And then Vivienne. They sit together and that is strange. Vivienne rarely ever ventured into Cabot's bar and Lavellan doubts she and Josephine would have sat with Dorian in Iron Bull's usual corner. 

Cassandra and Leliana are next and then Iron Bull. And Scout Harding and Dagna. The Chargers. Everyone is here, she realizes, and she feels a pang. The room is full. And none of them seem to be able to see her.

The bar starts to burn. They don't notice that either. It burns and they laugh and carry on. Their skin blackens and chars. Their bones crack. They die again. 

And she is still not alone.

"I do not believe meeting in Hunter Fell is wise," Solas says. She did not expect to see him, but she should have known he would come. He steps through the smoke. Through the ashes.

"Why not?" she asks. She is trying to catch her breath. She can still see the fire, smell the smoke. She can taste the ashes.

She can hear the laughter as they died.

"I am not welcome in Hunter Fell," he says.

And she looks at him. 

"Oh." It does strange things to her heart to see him like this---his expression lighter, unguarded. He is beautiful. She doesn't want him to be beautiful.

"Yes," he says, "I had no idea the Red Jennies were so...organized."

But he means angry. The Red Jennies are angry and they have bombs. She should have thought of that. She should have remembered. 

"Where do you want to meet instead?" she asks.

"Kirkwall," he says, "We might as well. If that is where we must start."

She steadies her hands. She breathes. Kirkwall. Yes, that would make sense, she thinks.

"Your dreams are terrible," he says, "I'm sorry."

Everything is terrible, she thinks.

"Ellana," he says.

"I know," she snaps, and she regrets it. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't want to argue. Not when he's like this. Not when he's himself again. She shuts her eyes.

"Should I go?" he asks, "I think I am---I am intruding again." He is but she doesn't know. She doesn't want to go to Kirkwall. She wants to go home. 

"I am tired, Solas," she says, "I just want this to all be over."

"I know," he says, "I'm sorry."

"Apologize after your memories return," she says, "Then it will mean something." And still, she is too sharp with him. She doesn't mean to be. She is thinking about the day the sky burned. She is thinking about how it was to watch the Inquisition soldiers fall.

She had been surrounded by humans and his elves. They fell and she thought she was the only one left. She couldn't see Sera. She couldn't see anyone. 

And Cole shattered. Dorian died.

Solas can't remember any of it.

When she opens her eyes, he is staring, crestfallen. He has stepped back and he looks like he's going to leave. She can't smile at him. She can't even give him that. She wants to though. She wants to kiss him. She wants to chase that look of his face, but she knows, that would be a mistake. She can't risk it.

"Kirkwall then," she says.

He nods. He leaves. She feels like her stomach has been turned inside out and filled with glass. 

The bar restores itself. The people filter in again. They burn again. And she can't stop it.

 

She is one of the last to wake but there is time for breakfast. She spoons a bit of stew into a bowl.

Fenris avoids her. He moves away when she tries to talk to him. Twice. She gives up and retreats because it doesn't feel nice. She feels insulted. A little disgusting.

She sits with Velanna and eats her ration of stew and tells them the change of plans. Merrill looks a little green at the suggestion.

"He wants to return to the scene of the crime, does he?" Mahariel asks, "Why am I not surprised?"

Already, she knows this isn't going to go well. 

"I don't care to see Kirkwall like that again," Merrill says, "It was horrible the first time." And Fenris mumbles his agreement.

"He's not welcome in Hunter Fell," she says.

"His own fault," Fenris snaps, and she is furious.

"Now you'll talk to me," she snaps.

He turns away and she doesn't understand why he's angry. He's the one who kissed her and then ran away before she could respond. He did. If anyone should be angry, it should be her. And she is. She most certainly is.

"Oh you two," Mahariel says, "None of that."

"Shut up," she says.

But then, she catches a glimpse of Velanna---red faced and clutching her staff so tight her knuckles are white. Lavellan knows better than to push her luck. She shuts her mouth and goes back to staring at her bowl. She has lost her appetite. She doesn't really want to eat.

She wants a bottle of Tevinter Red. She wants Dorian. She wants Cassandra. Not this. None of this. 

"Stop behaving like children and start behaving like adults," Velanna says, "If you have to argue, please, do it in private. I don't want to listen to it."

"I don't want to go to Kirkwall," Merrill says.

"No one does," Velanna says.

"Then why are we doing it?" Sera asks and she picks at her food. She pretends to eat it. 

They look at Lavellan. They all do. They go quiet and they stare and she doesn't like the turn this has taken.

"Excuse me?" she asks, "I'm not the one who's turning into an archdemon, Don't you dare blame this on me."

"He's your vhenan," Mahariel says.

And she has had enough.

She gets up. She dumps the stew out the window. She cleans the bowl and then leaves it on the table. She can feel them staring at her still and that isn't fair. This is not her fault

She goes outside. She lets the door slam shut behind her. Loudly. She sits on the steps and Trouble sits beside her. And she wants to go back to the way things were. Before the world ended. Before she failed.

"I have something to burn," Trouble says. This time though, she doesn't mind. She feels like setting something on fire right now.

"Show me," she says.

The door opens and shuts before Trouble can move. She doesn't look up, she doesn't want to know who it is. Because if it is Mahariel, she is going to do something they will both regret.

But it is not Mahariel.

It is worse.

"Can we talk?" Fenris asks. He doesn't sound like he means it. He sounds like he wants to go back inside and pretend none of this ever happened. Clearly.

He had an opportunity to talk to her earlier this morning and last night, before he ran off. She thinks she should do them both a favor and tell him to go stuff his pretty little talk right up his ass. She looks at him and that is where it all goes wrong.

He looks miserable.

Kissing her must have been worse than she thought for him to wear a face like that. 

"Not if you're going to yell at me about Solas," she says. It makes his face go dark. It makes his expression twist.

"Not everything is about him, you know," he snaps. Her face is too hot. She is not going to sit here and be yelled at. She refuses.

She gets up, she starts to move, and he is cursing again.

"Wait," he says, "Please. This isn't easy for me. I'm sorry." It makes her stop. She doesn't know why. She shouldn't care. She should just keep going because if she doesn't she is probably going to cry. Her eyes are stinging. She is embarrassed.

But then Trouble is laughing. It is circling around her and trying to hug her. It looks at Fenris. It grins.

"Go away, please," she tells it. But Trouble is a pest. It doesn't leave. It is ever so pleased with itself.

"I haven't showed you yet," it says, "There's so much to do."

No, she thinks, there isn't. And she shouldn't have encouraged it. There is something wrong with it. She thinks it is just a matter of time before Trouble gets too be too much to handle. 

Fenris takes her hand and pulls her away. He glares at Trouble when it starts to follow. He doesn't speak until they're a safe distance away. Until they are out of earshot. 

When she looks back, Trouble is still there---watching, straining to see. She is surprised. She would have thought it would push, it would resist.

"Last night was a mistake," Fenris says. And that is like a slap to the face. As if it was so terrible. As if it really was.

She knows what he's going to say next and she doesn't want to hear it. But she asks anyway. She does.

"What are you talking about?" 

"Last night," he says, "I kissed you. I shouldn't have---"

Of course. She moves away because this is not going to a place she wants to follow. Kissing her was a mistake. He regrets it. That's why he left. That's why he didn't give her a chance to respond or even a chance to talk. He didn't want to give her the chance to reciprocate. It was already awkward enough. And now, she's making it worse. He just wants to forget about it.

"Wait," he says, "I'm not finished."

"No, I think you are," she says. Because she is not up for more pain. Not today. No.

"Don't do that," he snaps.

She ignores him. She wants to leave him here, give him a taste of what she felt last night. He doesn't have to like her, but he doesn't get to toy with her like that. This is not a game. She is not a game.

"Ellana," he says, "I'm trying to apologize."

"You're failing," she says, "You're failing to apologize." And making it worse. He is.

He curses. He follows her.

"Will you just hear me out?" he asks, "Please?"

She doesn't know why she stops, but she does. It's the damned please again, probably. A weakness Solas knew how to exploit. She doesn't need to be told kissing her was a mistake. She doesn't know why she's still listening. 

"I know you still love him," he says, "Last night was selfish. I thought---I wanted---"

But this isn't what she expects him to say. This isn't---that isn't---her breath hitches. _I know you still love him._. Not you're disgusting. Not I wish it had never happened. 

"What did you say?" she asks, because she must have heard him wrong.

She turns. She looks at him. He thinks he was being selfish. Somehow. She doesn't understand him. 

"You love him. Even after everything he's put you through," he says, "I know."

"This is about Solas?" she asks. She takes a step towards him but he moves away again. He is nervous, skittish. He is afraid, she realizes.

He is. Of her.

"Of course it's about him," he says,"It always is."

She sighs. No. It isn't, she thinks. He ran away because he doesn't want her to hurt him. He doesn't want to be rejected. That's what this is. She struggles to slow her breathing but it is difficult. She is surprised. No. She is shocked.

"I'm not going back to him," she says.

He doesn't believe her. She can see it in his eyes, on his face. 

But he's wrong. She isn't going back. This is to save Mahariel. This is to save everyone. If Solas can help, they have no choice but to seek him out. 

"Fenris," she says.

"Don't lie to me," he says.

"I'm not," she snaps, "He lied to me. He kept me locked up---I was little more than a prisoner. Do you think I can just forget that?"

"He killed me," she continues, "I was dead. Do you have any idea what that was like? Being outside of my body, watching? I couldn't even fight. I couldn't do anything." And she will never forget that.

He hesitates. He doesn't move but he looks at her. She can't decipher the look he gives her but it is some kind of question. He is uncertain. Unsure. 

He is an idiot. 

But so is she.

She doesn't give him a chance to run again. She pulls him down. He just sort of gasps but then the sound is stifled. She kisses him. She does it properly this time.

He isn't Solas. But she doesn't want him to be.


	88. Holding Her Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a long journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note---I understand not liking a particular pairing. I really do. I'm trying to get this finished by July and the negative comments about the Fenris/Lavellan stuff are making that more difficult. Please, if you don't like it, that's cool and I get it, but this is my story and this is the way I'm writing it. Thank you for reading.

They are interrupted by laughter, but this time, it isn't Trouble's. Zevran, she realizes, and she glares.

"Thank you, my friends," he says. His smile is unnerving. It is wrong. She doesn't know why but she knows she wants to throw something at him.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because I have just won ten gold," he says, "And because Sera has no money, a dozen cookies."

"What are you talking about?" she asks.

"Some kind of bet, no doubt," Fenris says. And Trouble is thrilled.

"Ah, yes," Zevran says, "The kind of bet in which I win cookies. The best kind of bet. By the way, they are all ready to go. Are you ready or do you want me to distract them for a while longer? It would be no trouble at all." He does something horrifying with his eyebrows, and she refuses to look at Trouble. The damn spirit is snickering.

"No, it's fine," she says, "Don't---no." And then she realizes what he means. Her face goes hot. she thinks she is probably blushing.

She should ask more about the bet, but something tells her she doesn't want to know. It is bad enough they were talking about her behind her back like this, making them both the butt of a joke---she doesn't want to be angry. She doesn't want to think about it.

Later, perhaps. When the worst is behind them. 

Zevran should not be offering to stall the party. She is not going to have sex outside where any of them could see. He is terrible.

"Stop looking at us like that," Fenris says.

"Like what?" Zevran asks, and he does it again. He makes that face. That horrible, ridiculous face.

"Like that," Fenris says, "Go bother Mahariel." He snaps. His voice is sharp. She can hear the threat.

"I am so looking forward to those cookies," Zevran says. He laughs again, but she doesn't feel like letting him have his fun.

"You might regret that. Have you had any of Sera's cookies?" she asks.

"Of course. She is quite talented."

"Yes, but that was before she lost a bet," she says, "Do you think she'll make her best batch or do you think she'll put something special in just for you? I'm sure she won't be bitter."

His smile falters, as if he hadn't thought of it. Sera wouldn't purposefully sabotage cookies, would she? Oh yes. She would. Anything for a good prank.

"Well, my dear, that is something to think about," he says. And finally, finally, he shuffles back inside.

Fenris kisses her again. She doesn't want him to stop.

 

Trouble won't leave. It climbs up behind Mahariel and flattens itself to his back---it is solid now. Or it has learned how to make itself solid enough to ride a horse.

Cole is staring and his expression is concerned.

That is when she realizes---Trouble isn't solid. It is sinking through the horse just a little. Trouble is only solid where it's touching Mahariel. It can hold on to him. She would not be surprised at this point if it tried to crawl into his lap. 

She wouldn't be surprised if Mahariel let it.

"So much for that," Zevran says, he looks as concerned as Cole. Mahariel is changing. Or Trouble is, but whichever the case, it isn't good. 

"You can ride with me," Cole says. He is still staring at Trouble. Griffin is staring at Trouble too. She doesn't have to guess what they're thinking. It is probably the same thing she is thinking. They are going to have to keep an eye on this, on them. 

"Thank you, my friend," Zevran says, "I have never ridden a spirit horse before. This should be exciting."

He pats Griffin's flank and then vaults himself up. They ride. 

 

The first night they stop on the shores of a lake---there is an abandoned fishing village. The houses are little more than shacks.

It is cool but tempers are still running hot. Sera is tired of Zevran's gloating. Zevran is tired of riding with Cole and he's tired of Trouble. Mahariel is tired of arguing about the spirit. He's tired of the plan.

Fenris is tired of all of it and Velanna is tired of everyone.

It is just a matter of time, Lavellan thinks, before one of them snaps. 

"You are coming with me," Zevran says, "Alone." He looks pointedly at Mahariel and then at Trouble. 

"This will be fun," Trouble says.

"No. You will stay here," Zevran says.

Trouble is probably going to wait for him to remove his pants and then it's going to snatch them up and hide them. 

Sera and Merrill have already disappeared. Lavellan can't get over how good they are at that. One minute they're here with the rest of them and the next they're gone---never a trace, never a sound.

"Someone needs to bring back something for dinner," Velanna says, "You can't all run off to have sex."

Mahariel hesitates.

"Maybe Trouble could---"

"Yes!" Trouble says, pleased to be included. Lavellan is horrified though. She is not eating anything Trouble catches. She is not letting it cook. Mahariel is insane for suggesting it.

"I don't care if it's the damned archdemon, back from the dead," Velanna says, "Somebody go catch something. I'm tired of being stuck with the task. I am not cooking tonight." She does seem to cook more than her fair share, Lavellan realizes. But Sera is usually the one to go hunting. She had hoped it evened out in the end---she thought it did. Velanna disagrees.

"I'm going swimming," she continues, "Don't bother me."

"Well," Mahariel says once she's out of earshot, "She sure told us."

"Trouble is not cooking," Lavellan tells him. She doesn't trust a spirit named Trouble to not give them some kind of food poisoning.

"Congratulations, then. I think you just volunteered," Mahariel says, grinning, and then Zevran is dragging him away. They are practically skipping away. This is not fair.

"I did not---" she starts, but it is too late. He's not going to stop and come back and she doesn't really want to incur the wrath of Zevran. He is surprisingly unpleasant when he isn't getting laid.

They are on the shores of a lake and she is not much of a hunter. She is going to have to hope for some kind of fish. She is not terribly confident in her abilities.

She should not be surprised when Fenris stays to help her, but she is. They catch a few fish, just enough for everyone, and it is all cooking nicely by the time the others start to filter back to the camp fire. She leans against him while she waits. He wraps his arms around her. She did not think she would want something like this again, after Solas. 

 

She sleeps. She is trapped again. Where ever she is, there are no windows. Only an endless, dark corridor. She walks for what feels like days and panic is clawing at her. She knows if she can just see the sky, she'll be alright. If she can just find a crack in the wall, a hole, anything.

When she can't walk any further, she beats the walls with her fists. She tries to blast them with fire. She only hurts herself. She can't get out.

She is having trouble breathing. She is struggling, fighting for air, and it is getting more and more difficult.

But the terrible corridor melts away and she is not alone. 

The sight of him should be welcome, she thinks, it should make her feel better. 

But it doesn't. She is caught in her fear. The walls are gone but she can still feel them. This is just a dream but it feels like more. She could almost swear she's trapped in Solas' fortress again, trapped with no way out.

"It's just a dream," Solas says, "You're safe." She steps back when he moves toward her. 

"I need a moment," she says, "Don't touch me."

He folds his hands behind his back. He tries to school his face, to keep it passive, but she can see his concern. She sees his regret.

"I wanted to tell you I might be late," he says, "We have to stop to resupply. There are duties I must attend."

She is still trying to breathe. It takes a moment before she can answer him.

"You'll probably still beat us there," she says at last. Because they need supplies. Whether they head to Ghislain as planned or to Hunter Fell, it will cost them time.

"Have you seen the new cities?" Solas asks. He sounds awed. He sounds like he has already forgotten where he is and who he's with. She doesn't want to talk about his beautiful horrible city. 

"Once or twice," she says.

"I imagine it has changed much," he says, "I want to show you---"

"No," she says, and it comes out more forceful than she intends. She is not going back there. Not for all the world.

She sees a spark of hurt in his eyes. She sees a twist of pain. Of confusion. He can't fathom the rejection, even now, even after everything. She cares nothing for his new ancient world.

"I've seen it," she says, "There are too many bad memories." Too many times he trapped her there, stopped her from leaving. With her luck, she'll agree to meet him and his memory will come rushing back. He'll trap her again.

No.

She will not take that risk.

"Did I ever show you Arlathan?" he asks. His gaze shifts inward again. He looks enchanted. Lost and far away. Arlathan, she thinks, even now that is what he thinks about. Arlathan and his ancient elves. The real world. The real people. Not her. Not her people. Not her world.

"I don't want to see that either," she says.

"Why are you angry?" he asks.

When isn't she angry? When? There is always something nagging at her.

"I'm not---I'm sorry. I don't want to fight," she says. She wants to wake up. She wants to forget, like he got to forget. She wants to open her eyes and believe everything is ok, even though it isn't.

He softens. He tries to clear the hurt from his face. He mostly succeeds. But she can still see it. She can feel it.

"Neither do I," he says, "I will not push you. If you change your mind, know that you have only to ask."

Once, she was curious. She would have begged. But things have changed. His past was more important than all the people living in the world. Her friends. Her family. Her. His recreated ancient cities hold nothing for her. They can't bring back the dead.

She will not ask to see Arlathan or his new cities. She will never. 

"If you could go back and stop yourself from destroying the world," she begins, "Would you?"

He is startled. He steps back. He looks away and she can see the answer in his eyes. 

"I believe so," he says.

"I would try," he says. But she can hear the hesitation. He is lying to her again. Or omitting something important. He would do everything just the same. He would let them all die. Everyone. 

"Would you do it to save everyone?" she asks, "Or just to give yourself another chance to bring back Arlathan and the ancients?" Her voice breaks. She wants him to say yes, he would do it because it's right. She wants him to mean it.

"Vhenan," he says. He sighs and he takes her hand and she thinks he looks so very weary.

She already knows the answer anyway. She does.


	89. Sins of the Ancients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a struggle to find answers.

They detour to Ghislain and it quite a bit out of their way. But Velanna thinks it is for the best. She thinks they can convince Trouble to leave them. She thinks the spirit will be easily swayed by the prospect of seeing new people.

Lavellan is doubtful. She sees the way it clings to Mahariel---it is as if he's more and more important as the days pass. Soon, she thinks, he will be the only thing that matters to the spirit.

She doesn't know quite how she knows, but she does. It barely leaves his side now. Zevran is beyond frustrated.

Skinner greets them with a half hearted wave. Dalish is here too, but the rest are unfamiliar. There is a city elf from Denerim named Darrien Tabris. His face is scarred and he blends a little too well into the shadows. He has the look of a thief---the way he moves reminds her of the way Leliana used to move.

But it's the mage that catches Lavellan's attention. Neria Surana is tranquil---or rather, she was. 

"When the Veil fell, it restored me," she says. But the scar remains. 

"It doesn't trouble me anymore," she continues---Lavellan is not the only one caught staring, but still, she is embarrassed. She knows better.

She can't imagine what it must have been like. She can't even imagine.

There is also a woman who knows Fenris and Merrill---she worked for Hawke, rescued from Tevinter slavers. Lavellan thinks she knows the name from one of Varric's stories but Varric had a tendency to embellish. It is difficult to know what is true and what isn't.

Orana greets Fenris with a timid hug before she turns to Merrill. 

Lavellan doesn't want to pry but she is curious. Merrill doesn't talk much about Hawke. And it is difficult to get Fenris to talk about much of anything. If they were alone it might have been different, but there is rarely a moment they are. Orana is even harder to engage, and she is surprised when Lavellan asks. She is quick with a smile and eager to offer her help, but she is reluctant to speak of her past or Hawke.

"They were dark times," she says, "I would not be alive today if not for Hawke."

"And of course, Merrill and Fenris," she says. And not much has changed. The times are still dark. The times are worse.

The rest of the Red Jennies are scattered across Orlais and Nevarra. The last they heard of Loranil he had met up with Keeper Lanaya and a handful of Dalish elves from other clans---lone survivors mostly. When they are settled, they will send word, but for now, they don't want to risk Solas' attention. 

She doesn't know what they're searching for but she hopes they are scouting for a new home, someplace far away, someplace safe. She hopes whatever it is, they find it.

Cole hangs back again. He avoids the new people, tries to hide from them, but Neria fixes him with her stare. She can see him even when he doesn't want her to and Lavellan can tell. His expression turns bewildered. He looks vexed. He tilts his head and blinks at her.

"You are an odd boy," Neria says.

"I'm a spirit," he says, "Not a boy."

"Whatever you are," she says, "You're interesting. Sit with me for a while. We don't get many visitors." He looks like he's thinking about running. Neria's gaze is too intense. Lavellan would not enjoy being the recipient of such a look.

That is when Lavellan realizes Trouble has gone missing.

She sighs. The spirit is going to get them thrown out.

"What's wrong?" Darrian Tabris asks. She jumps because she doesn't see him until he's right behind her. He seems to melt out of thin air, almost the way Cole does. It is just as bad. No, it is worse because he's not a spirit. No one should be able to move that quietly.

"Trouble," she says.

He frowns. He checks the windows.

"Don't see anything," he says, "You sure, sister?" His lips twitch, almost a smile, but the scars pull a little.

"It was here a moment ago," she says, "And now it's gone. That's never a good thing."

Darrian looks at Neria---he is mystified. Lavellan suspects he's thinking she's a bit addled. Maybe the heat of the sun baked her brain a little. This will be a trial then. They haven't met Trouble. 

"Not real Trouble, spirity creepy Trouble," Sera says, and she pokes his arm, "It's a little shite who steals shite. Hang on to your pants if you want to keep 'em."

And now Darrian grins, he shows his teeth, "Not going to be boring with you around, eh?" He scratches the back of his head.

"It never is," Mahariel says, "But she's not lying. You might want to check your rooms. Trouble likes to steal things, specifically pants, and then burn them. I'm down to my last pair."

"Pants are overrated anyway, brother," Darrian says.

But he goes. Orana and Skinner follow. 

 

And Trouble has outdone itself. It has ferreted away an embarrassing number of things. Pants, books, a half finished oil painting Neria is working on---and Neria is beyond furious. She makes Cole help look. She makes them all help. 

The safe house is small but there are many places to hide. Too many. 

Fenris pulls her aside while they have a moment---into one of the empty rooms. She thinks it might have been a study. There are a few bookshelves and a desk. There is a lot of clutter and she thinks the Jennies have been using it for storage. There isn't much room to move around.

Fenris touches her face. 

He kisses her. Then sighs, his lips still pressed to hers.

He pulls back.

"I don't know how to say it," he says.

"Say what?" she asks. And the tension in his voice worries her. She jumps to the worst possibility, but the worst possibility has already happened with Solas. It won't happen again. This is something else.

He shuts his eyes for a moment. He rests his forehead against hers.

"I haven't been with anyone since Hawke," he says. Oh, she thinks, and she understands.

"I don't know how to be with anyone else," he says.

She knows how he feels. For so long there was only Solas. This is new and it is strange. It is terrifying.

"This could be a disaster," he says. 

"It could," she says, "We seem to have more than our fair share of those." But there is only one Dread Wolf and he has already revealed himself. Fenris hasn't lied to her and he has had plenty of opportunities. He is who he says he is and he doesn't falter.

He is steady. 

He is solid.

He is constant.

She doesn't want to hurt him. She doesn't want him to hurt her. But it could happen. She knows.

"We won't rush this. We'll take it one day at a time," she continues. 

She doesn't want to make a mistake. She doesn't want to end up loving him and hating him all at the same time. She doesn't want to be wrapped up in a fog of confusion. And that is the way it is with Solas. 

She thinks she will always be confused and she hates that.

Fenris smooths the hair back from her face. He kisses her again. He smiles but it is shaky. It is small. She thinks he looks sad.

"You are beautiful," he says.

"So are you," she says, but it makes him uncomfortable somehow. He shifts and his smile is a little tight. It doesn't reach his eyes. She doesn't know why. 

He is beautiful.

 

Sera tries to prank Trouble and that is a mistake. She tricks it into opening one of her pouches and the damned thing explodes. There are sparks and fire and loud noises and smoke. Trouble is delighted.

"This is better than just fire," it says, "Come with me. Make more!"

"Eugh, no, go away," she says.

"We're friends now," Trouble says.

Sera retreats and it tries to follow until Merrill intervenes.

"Er no, Trouble, Sera doesn't want to play," she says.

But she is putting it lightly. Sera doesn't just not want to play. She wants it to disappear. She wants to make it stay with Dalish and Skinner.

"But I want to show her something," Trouble says.

"Sera says NO, fuck off," Sera shouts. But Trouble has spotted Mahariel again---attempting to sort through the supplies. Sera is suddenly forgotten.

"No, Trouble, this has to be done," Mahariel says when it tries to hug him, "Do not take the cheese. That's for later."

Trouble snatches a pouch away, it makes it hover in the air, but it is clear Trouble is straining. Mahariel plucks the pouch out of the air. 

"Sing with me," Trouble says.

Lavellan is quiet as she watches. Eventually Mahariel relents. He sings ridiculous songs with Trouble and they sound terrible. It takes twice as long to finish sorting through the supplies. About halfway through, Lavellan is finally noticed and dragged into it.

"If you're going to just sit there, you might as well lend a hand," Mahariel says.

"I've already done my share," she says, but she helps anyway. They are all exhausted by the time they're done. It is late. There is barely time to choke down a bit of food before she's yawning. 

She curls up in one of the free beds. She is dozing when someone shrieks. She hears cursing. It almost makes her jump out of her skin. 

"Get. Out," Sera says. And Trouble is laughing.

"Trouble, please," Merrill says.

"Why?" it asks.

"Why indeed," Merrill says, 'We want to be alone."

There is a pause and Trouble makes a strange sound.

"But there's nothing when you're alone," it says, "There's only the quiet and the quiet is empty. There is no song. There is only the dark."

Please, stop, she thinks. This is not the bed time story she wants and Trouble is not trying to be quiet. Trouble is pitching its voice so it carries, whether it means to or not. 

"She is alone. She doesn't know I can hear her now," Trouble says.

The quiet falls heavy and Lavellan feels a frisson of fear. She sits up. She considers going out to join the conversation because this is doing terrible things to her heart. She hears someone's sharp intake of breath. She hears footsteps.

But she can't seem to move. She can only listen.

"Who---Trouble, who do you hear?" Merrill asks. It isn't an archdemon. It is something worse. And whatever it is, whoever _she_ is, she is calling to Mahariel. She is doing this.

"She is singing." As if that answers every question.

"Ok, that's enough, don't want to know," Sera says, "Get out already." Lavellan hears more footsteps.

"No, this is important," Merrill says, "Trouble, who? Who is singing?"

Lavellan holds her breath and she thinks Trouble isn't going to answer. She thinks it's toying with them, trying to get them to burn something in exchange for crumbs of information. And that is frustrating.

But she hears the ghost of a breath it doesn't need to take, the rasp of air.

"Her," it says, "Mother." It's voice is soft and wistful, and so full of longing. She can barely hear it. She has to strain. _Mother._ The same way Valta says _Stone_ or titan. It is the same reverent tone. The thought nags at her.

And then Sera---it must be Sera---is slamming the door. 

_Mother. She is singing._ She hears it play over and over in her head. Trouble's voice first, but then it changes. She hears it in Mahariel's voice and she has chills. He will not lose himself to the same corruption that created the archdemons. He will not.

It takes Lavellan too long to fall asleep.

 

When Solas appears, she is ready. She doesn't give him a chance to shift the Fade. She doesn't even care if he changes it to look like the Fallow Mire---wretched smell and all. She has things to say before he distracts her. 

"Tell me everything you know about this thing calling to Mahariel. Tell me what it is," she says. She insists.

His breath hitches. He looks at her and he is trying to guess where her mind is going, what she's thinking, what brought this question.

"I won't know for certain until I see it," he says. A convenient answer, she thinks.

"Her," she says, "Before you see her."

"Trouble calls her Mother," she continues, "Who is Mother, Solas? What is she?" And his eyebrows go up. He is surprised but it is more than that. He did not expect her to call her by that name. She can see it on his face.

He knows what Mother is. He knows and he doesn't want to tell her. He is going to find a way to keep her in the dark and that reminds her of Fen'Harel---not Solas, not the man she fell in love with. Fen'Harel is the one who keeps secrets.

"How far are you from Kirkwall?" he asks.

"Don't dance around the subject. Just tell me," she says, and there is another question she wants to ask---or rather, she doesn't want to ask but she knows she has to. He will find a way to avoid telling her anything useful otherwise.

"Mother is a titan, isn't she?" she asks. She isn't sure until then. It's the shift of his body that gives it away.

Solas' shoulders sag, just a little. She sees defeat in his expression. She has hit on something and he doesn't want o discuss it.

"I'm not certain," he says, "But...it is possible."

"I've traveled through time, Solas, I know anything is possible," she says, "But is it likely? That's what I want to know. Please, don't speak in riddles."

He sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes for a moment too long. When he opens them again, she sees a strange look of calm, of resignation.

"If it is a corrupted Titan, it may be the source of the red lyrium," he says and she thinks she's going to scream. That isn't what she asked. It isn't what she needs to know. 

But the answer must be yes. It is possible it could be a titan. It is possible and very likely and he doesn't want to actually come out and say it. She wonders if the ancient elves are somehow to blame. She thinks of the corrupted heart in June's dwarven temple and the blighted lands around Andruil's temple. She wonders if that's the reason for his hesitation. She hopes. She doesn't want him to fall back into old habits.

She wants him to stay like he was. She wants him to be kind. 

"Why won't you just answer me?" she asks.

"Why do I have to beg you for information?" she asks, "Every time, Solas. Why?"

"I...don't know," he says, "I have made a mess of this."

She wonders if she will ever not feel like there is a heavy stone in her belly. 

"It is our fault if it is a titan," he says, "Not yours, emma lath, no. The Evanuris. The Forgotten Ones. All of us. You know now what the orbs really were---you can imagine what we did to obtain them."

"No, Solas, I can't," she says, "You haven't told me anything." He hasn't. Still. He leaks tiny crumbs but those crumbs only leave bigger questions behind them.

"Well, it's unimportant now," he says, "The price was too great. Falon'Din was blighted, long before---it twisted his vanity, it created the monster of your legends. If Mother is a corrupted titan, he is to blame."

She has forgotten to breathe. Even though they're in the Fade, it hurts all the same. There is no _if_. It is a titan. He knows. It must be.

He blames Falon'Din but they were all at fault. All of them. Even Mythal. No one was innocent. None but the titans, the seeds. 

"Do you have a plan?" she asks. Her voice sounds like a stranger's. It sounds so distant, so far away.

"Beyond killing it, no," he says, "I have no idea."

"The corruption will be dangerous," he says, "It may be wise to leave Mahariel behind. If he is hearing her song, it is possible she may be able to take him over if he gets too close. It may finish the transformation."

And she doubts Mahariel will agree to stay behind.

Solas is staring again. He looks like he's going to touch her, but she turns away. He can't. _She can't again._

She feels him move beside her. She stares at the sky and she can't banish the thoughts of failure that rise. There are so many ways this can go wrong. There are so many ways they could die.


	90. The Wisps are Like Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble is changing and so is Mahariel.

Trouble stops talking. It hums. Not quite like the broken spirits of Love, this is worse. It is the same song Mahariel has been hearing. There is no coherent melody, just a serious off off key notes. It tumbles in a way that makes her skin crawl. It is chaos.

It puts everyone on edge.

She fights with Fenris. She doesn't mean to, but she does. He follows her when it's her turn to fetch wood for the fire. She is glad at first. She thinks it will be nice---but he is upset. He is pretending he's not worrying about Mahariel, that he's not thinking about his reaction to Trouble and that damned melody.

He is stubborn. 

He thinks she's blind where Solas is concerned, but what has she done to make him think that? She has fought Solas at every turn.

She knows what he can do and what he will do. She isn't a fool.

"You can't trust him," he says.

"I don't," she says. Stop pushing, she thinks.

"You want to," he says, "You think because he's forgotten the last few years it means he's changed, but he's still the same man he always was."

"He was always Fen'Harel, he just hid it better," he continues.

She doesn't understand why he's doing this, why he's pushing, why he's picking a fight. Worse, he's doing it and everyone can hear him. His voice carries. He doesn't try to pitch it so they won't hear---they are not far away at all.

"What do you think will happen when he's done with this truce?" he asks, "Do you think he'll let us just walk away?"

She wants to throw something at him. It is a fair question and he is right, but she doesn't want to hear it. Not now. Not when her temper is already fraying at the edges.

The sun is sinking low and the sky an orange tinged with black. She sees the first stars. She sees the creeping darkness.

"This isn't about Solas," she says, "This is about Mahariel." And he looks startled. She sees the flicker of worry, of fear. No, she thinks, he doesn't want to talk about it. He would much rather argue, force a talk he knows she doesn't want to have yet.

"I won't lie and tell you I'm not concerned," he says, "But the Dread Wolf is the more pressing issue. We can't fight what's happening to Mahariel."

"We can fight the Dread Wolf," he insists, "But only if you keep your head. Don't fall for his lies." _Keep your head._ It makes her see red. It makes her burn. He should stop now. He should. 

"I'm not stupid," she snaps, "I don't trust him---"

"Why do you always jump to that? I know you're not stupid. Far from it," he says, "But you want to trust him and that's dangerous." No. He has no idea what she wants. He hasn't bothered to ask.

"I don't want to talk about this now," she says. Or ever. She had wanted to push him up against a tree and kiss him senseless, but now, she wants him to go dunk his head. And she can't go storming back to camp. As much as she wants to, they need firewood. It is her turn. She can't shirk the task off on someone else just because she's angry.

She wants to though.

She does.

"Ellana," he says.

He catches her arm. He tugs her back, and she thinks, he is brave to risk it. As angry as she is, as furious, he should show more caution. She is a mage after all. And doesn't he have definite opinions about them. She remembers hearing him say something once.

"Please," he says, "Hear me out." He sounds like he's trying not to yell at her. He sounds like he's trying to keep his voice civil, but he isn't very good at it. He is still too sharp. She is still too raw.

"You need to be prepared," he says.

"I"m prepared," she says. 

His thumb traces a circle on her skin. She doesn't know why she hasn't extracted herself from his hold. She is furious, and when she thinks about Solas, there is a pain in her chest. When she lets herself follow Fenris' train of thought, it is like the twist of a knife. Solas didn't have to lie. He never had to. Never.

What is so wrong with her that Solas couldn't just have trusted her with the truth? He always says he loves her, he calls her his heart, he tells her beautiful things, but they feel like empty, pretty words. She could have helped him. She could have found another way. She would have tried.

The world didn't have to fall. Her people didn't have to die.

And Fenris sees it in her eyes. He catches the twist of her expression and she doesn't want him to. She tries to look away, to turn, to stop him from seeing. But she is not quick enough. He makes a soft sound, not quite a sigh.

"I shouldn't have said it like that," he says.

She can't speak yet. Her throat is too tight. It hurts to breathe.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I don't want to hurt you."

He's not the reason she's angry, not really. But he's here. He's a convenient target. And he is an ass.

But he's not Solas. And he is right. She needs to be prepared for the moment the moment Solas tries to trick her, for the moment it all goes wrong. It always comes. It always happens.

She shuts her eyes. Her breath rushes out.

"It's not your fault," she says, "You didn't do any of this." The anger bleeds away and there is nothing, just a hollow feeling. She is drained. Tired.

He is quiet but she doesn't open her eyes. She feels him shift, his movements jerky, hesitant. He wraps his arms around her, pulls her tight against his chest. He holds her.

She doesn't want to cry.

"You need to be ready," he says, his voice low, softer, "We need a better plan than just wait and see."

"He put us to sleep last time. We need a defense against it," he continues.

"I know," she says, "Maybe Merrill has an idea. We can ask her." But it will be blood magic, she thinks, and Fenris will not like that. She feels his back stiffen, but he doesn't protest. Later, he might. He probably will. But what is she supposed to do?

He wants a solution she doesn't have. 

 

Merrill doesn't know how to block Solas' sleep spell but she has an idea. She will try to think of something, try to piece something together if Trouble will just stop humming, just for a little while. The sound is maddening. It is terrible.

Trouble doesn't listen. It barely acknowledges them. There is only the song. There is only the fire. There is only Mahariel.

"Try to ask it, Mahariel," Lavellan says, "It likes you."

"It's not really that bad, is it?" he asks, "I mean Trouble's a little flat but it's kind of catchy if you look past the rough parts."

Not really that bad? Kind of catchy? He's joking, surely.

"That's not a melody, that's not music. It's not catchy," she says.

He sighs. He looks a little annoyed.

"Fine," he says, "I'll ask but I really don't think it's that bad." He is insane than.

"You're nuts," Sera says, "That's the worst."

But Trouble doesn't stop. It quiets a little, but that little bit isn't enough to really make a difference. Mahariel won't ask again because he thinks it sounds just fine. He doesn't see what the fuss is about. Really. She can't stop sneaking glances at him, searching for signs---she doesn't know what exactly, but something. 

What happens when one becomes an Archdemon? How does it manifest? How do you know, she wonders.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm fine," he says, his voice is sharp. It is hard.

She thinks he's talking to her, but he's talking to Zevran. His face is drawn, worn, and she can see just how afraid he is.

"You must tell us if you start to have any strange thoughts," he says, "If you start to feel different. Please, Theron, do not take this lightly."

"I'm fine," he insists. He softens. He smiles. He pretends.

But he isn't fine.

He is getting worse.

 

Every time they stop to make camp, Merrill takes Cole and walks far enough away she can't hear Trouble. Sometimes Sera goes with them, but usually not. She doesn't care for blood magic or Cole. Usually, she takes her bow and goes hunting. 

Lavellan is tempted to go along just to get away from the sound. It is endless. 

Velanna goes with Merrill and Cole after the second time they stop. Fenris would rather endure the sound. Blood magic bothers him, more so than she realized, more so than Sera even. She assumes it is only because of Tevinter and the magisters. It is in part but it isn't just that.

He tells her about Hawke's mother and the Butcher of Lowtown and she understands. Necromancy, blood magic, and grief, a mage driven mad by it---Fenris' description is brief but horrifying.

The more she hears of Kirkwall's past, the worse it seems. It lessens her anger a little. Solas destroyed it and he shouldn't have, but a part of her thinks it was long over due. Maybe the corruption of the lyrium really was affecting everyone. Maybe they just didn't realize.

Maybe.

And she thinks, this is dangerous thinking. She is looking for a reason to rationalize what Solas has done. She is looking for a way to forgive him because she wants to forgive him. Gods help her, but she does. 

Fenris said she wasn't stupid, but he is wrong about that. She is. 

And then it happens. The three of them get up. They return to camp. Merrill grins. Cole smiles. Velanna looks skeptical. 

"I've got it," Merrill says. She couldn't, not this quickly, Lavellan thinks.

"She thinks she has it," Velanna says, "She has no idea."

But Merrill is not about to be discouraged by her appraisal. She is beaming. 

"It's a simple modification but it will work," she says. And their is a note of confidence in her voice, Lavellan hasn't heard before. She doesn't know what exactly she means, but she means it completely.

"Modification to what?" Lavellan asks. 

"The spell we used to keep the spirits of love from controlling us," Merrill says, "And a simple barrier spell. Oh, also, there's a binding spell Cole told me about---it's used to protect spirits from blood magic. Fascinating all around---normally you would need a particular amulet but none of us are spirits---"

"Today, Merrill, please," Mahariel says, but he is not trying to be unkind or rude. There are dark circles around his eyes. He looks like he hasn't been sleeping---but she knows he has. More than any of them. He is the only one who can sleep through Trouble's music.

"Oh, right, yes," Merrill says, "I can enchant something for each of you. As long as you're wearing it or touching it or carrying it somewhere on your person, it will reflect any sleep spells."

And oddly enough, Fenris doesn't look horrified. Neither does Sera. A spell that's cast on a thing can be disposed of. It can be tossed away if it turns dangerous. It can be destroyed.

Lavellan is a little in awe. She wouldn't have thought to merge the spells. Maybe the barrier spell would have come to her, but not the binding spell. She had all but forgotten about it. Merrill should be pleased because she is brilliant. 

They each choose an object or a piece of clothing---Lavellan still has Dorian's crystal. She thinks it's a fitting choice. Dorian would approve. 

It takes Merrill all of ten minutes to finish. She doesn't look tired. If anything, she is almost energized, and Lavellan understands. 

She puts the crystal in one of her pockets, and then, she sews the pocket shut. She is almost relieved. This is one less thing to worry about. It is one less knot of tension in her body. It is one less thing to keep her up at night. 

There is still the problem of Trouble's singing, but she has no idea how to convince it to stop. 

And Mahariel doesn't care. 

She catches him humming along with it. He stares into the fire. His gaze is dark.

 

She does not want to sleep yet but it is late and they have another early start. There is a stream of water nearby, just deep enough for swimming. She thinks she'll wait until the others are turning in for the night. She thinks she'll slip away.

It would be nice to be alone for a while. To clear her head.

But that is not what happens. 

Velanna draws first watch. They all start to turn in---except for Trouble and Cole. Lavellan waits. When she thinks no one's watching, she slips away. 

The stream is quiet. She thinks she's alone so she sets a few wisps along the edge. Just enough to give her a bit of light. She strips out of her clothes---dusty from the trail---and she sinks into the cool water. 

She dunks her head under the surface and when she comes back up she hears the crash of footsteps. She sees the glow of lyrium and the shock of white hair and she knows who has followed her. He stops at the edge of the water and looks at her.

When he realizes she is naked, his face goes a little red. 

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"I saw you slip away, I thought---" he says, but he trails off, he doesn't finish what he means to say.

"If you want to join me, I won't object," she says. Suddenly she doesn't much care to be alone. She wants him to join her. This is better than arguing and they have done far too much of that lately. 

He stares at her and she thinks his breath is coming in a little quick. But then, he smiles. 

"Alright," he says.

He pulls off his shirt. He strips down and wades in. It is hard not to stare. And all at once, she is nervous. She sinks under the water again. She wonders what she's doing.

She doesn't see him when she comes back up. The surface of the stream is rippling, as if he just ducked under, but she doesn't see where he has gone. She casts another wisp, thinking she needs more light, but then she feels the water move behind her, as he surges up.

She feels his hands on her hips and then he's pulling her back against him. He kisses her shoulder. He kisses her neck.

This is not taking it slow, she thinks.

She doesn't care.

She sighs. She leans back as his hands ghost up her sides. They skim the curve of her breasts, teasing, but not quite a caress. He moves his fingers to her shoulders. He trails them up her skin, along the line of her neck.

"Ellana," he says, "May I touch you?"

"Please," she says.

It has been a while. The last time was well before she unlocked Sylaise's power, before she stole the magic right out from under Solas. There has only been the Fade since then. She hasn't felt anything real.

His hand moves down her stomach, lower, trailing lower. He hesitates when he reaches the juncture of her thighs, but then he's parting her. His touch is clumsy, uncertain, but it doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. The brush of his finger is too light and then too firm but then it is chasing the breath out of her.

She arches against him. Her eyes flutter shut.

"Show me," he says, his voice rough in her ear.

He is going to drive her mad, she thinks. She doesn't know what he means until he stops. He takes her hand, he guides it to her clit. Oh, she realizes. That.

She shows him how hard and how fast. She shows him the way she wants to be touched and his breath is hot on the back of her neck. It is ragged. He is already so hard against the curve of her ass. 

This is different than Solas. Not better or worse, but different. 

She is quivering when she finally comes. Her legs feel watery and she thinks he is probably holding her up more than she is standing. 

She turns in his arms. She pulls him down. She kisses him too hard---their teeth clash, but she doesn't care. She needs this. She needs to feel him.

She starts to move, she is going to touch him, but he catches her wrist. He kisses her palm.

"There has been no one since Hawke," he says, "It has been a very long time."

"I may disappoint you," he says, and she hears his fear. 

But she doubts very much he could disappoint her. Not about this. She kisses him again and he lets her guide him back to the shore. There is more mud than sand---it is not terribly pleasant. But still, she doesn't care. Only the press of his skin, the touch of his mouth, the heat in his eyes---only that is important. He catches her hand again when she skims her fingers down the length of his chest. He rolls her under him. He nips the pulse point in her throat.

He slides against her and he makes a sweet sound. She thought he was beautiful before, but when he's like this, when he's pressed against her, so hard and wanting, he is more than that. More than beautiful.

"May I?" he asks. She feels his hips angling, but he waits. He doesn't ease her legs apart. He doesn't press for more until she tells him.

"Please," she says. 

And then he does. It is slow---hesitant again. She helps him when he fumbles. She feels the hard length of him and then the careful slide as he moves, as he buries himself inside her.

She hooks her legs around his waist and when he thrusts she rocks against him. 

The rhythm is off at first, again, but only for a moment. He moves and she is lost. She holds on, she strains---grips his shoulders too tight. When he quickens the pace, she thinks she is going to break apart. There is a sweet twist in her belly. She feels the roll of pleasure, the slow wave of it rising, growing with each touch.

He breathes against the edge of her jaw, kisses her there. He shudders. He gets a hand between them and finds her clit---he presses too hard and too quick again---the pace erratic, chaotic, but she doesn't want him to stop.

It is wrong but it is perfect. It is not what she expects but it is just right.

"Oh Gods, Fenris," she says, and her voice sounds unfamiliar.

He murmurs something against her throat. She feels him jerk inside her, his thrusts suddenly uneven, wild, but then she's coming. He pulls out. He spills on the ground. And she can not move because every nerve in her body feels like it's trembling. She waits for it to slow, to stop, and then she looks at him.

He cups her face. He kisses her lips. 

She doesn't want it to end.


	91. The Quiet is Terrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't like this.

She doesn't really know what she's supposed to do after. She had only been with Solas the last few years and when they were together, they fought. Before or after. Or during. There was rarely a happy silence. It was always so tense. She is uncertain now. 

It doesn't help that Fenris is quiet now. She wonders if he thinks it was a mistake. She wonders if he was thinking of Hawke and she knows that is one question she will never ask.

Velanna says nothing when they slip back into camp, their hair wet. She doesn't even bother to look up---she has a few ragged looking pieces of paper in front of her. She is writing something, crossing words out and starting again. Her brow is furrowed with concentration.

Sera has rolled over---she's sleeping on her stomach and Merrill's head is resting on her shoulder, her arm draped loosely around her waist. Mahariel and Zevran are back to back, but Mahariel isn't asleep. He is staring, bleary eyed into the fire. Trouble is still humming, but quieter this time, and Cole is gone.

She is surprised Mahariel is still awake. He has slept more than any of them lately. He should be sleeping now.

She almost calls out to him, but something stops her. Maybe the look on his face, she doesn't know, but when she looks at Zevran, she gets it. She knows.

He isn't really asleep, she realizes.

They have been fighting, she realizes. 

It was bad this time, worse. It must have been.

She lays down by the fire. She doesn't let herself ask because it is not what she would have wanted. She would want to be left alone. She wouldn't want any well meaning friend to offer their advice. Especially when that well meaning friend has no idea what she's talking about. When that well meaning friend made a mess of her own relationships.

A warm body settles behind her. Not quite touching, but almost. It lasts for just a moment but then she feels an arm drape over her. She feels him slide up against her, his front to her back. She feels the puff of his breath, warm on the nape of her neck. 

She sighs. He does not regret being with her after all. He is here. He is with her. And he wants to be.

He kisses her ear. He whispers good night.

For the first time in a very long time, she doesn't have to struggle to fall asleep.

 

"We never married," Solas says. And the Fade looks like Haven. It looks the way it was before it was destroyed. When they had their first kiss.

She is sleeping in Fenris' arms, and she is uncomfortable with this discussion. 

"No. We never did," she agrees.

She would not have agreed to marry him if he had bothered to ask. Maybe if he'd done it right after the end, when she was broken, when she couldn't breathe, couldn't think outside of the pain of it all. She might have then. 

But he is not that kind of a man. He gave her time. He waited.

He never asked and she is glad.

"But you stayed with me," he says, "Even after all I had done, you stayed." It is more of a question, really. Really, it is more of a slap to the face. 

She stiffens. She feels the flood of anger again, threatening to overwhelm her. He hadn't let her leave. His soldiers stopped her every time, they steered her away, back inside. They laughed at her.

"Have you even talked to Abelas?" she asks. She knows he has. There are too many questions to puzzle through and he does love a good puzzle. 

"I want to talk to you," he says.

He says please and his voice is soft. It is pitched just so. It is the way he talks when he's going to get his way. He may have forgotten the important years, but he has not forgotten her.

But she can't talk about this. She can't tell him his sins because this Solas isn't responsible for them. He can not remember what he has done. He can't recall his reasoning. He thinks it will help. He does, but he is wrong.

"Please, Ellana, talk to me," he says again. She hears desperation creeping in. She feels it.

"Not about this," she says. Just stop, she thinks. Let me have this moment, she thinks.

She can not insist any harder than she already has. She doesn't want to go back to those thoughts. She doesn't want to voice them, because if she does, they will have to argue again. She will end up screaming.

And if she starts, she won't be able to stop.

"What happened between us?" he asks. 

She can't answer him, can she? She doesn't know where to start. More importantly, she doesn't want to start. She doesn't want to dredge it all up because she has only just started to push some of it into the background.

There is too much pain. She will always love him, she thinks, but it can't be anything more than that. He is bad for her and she is worse for him. And Fenris doesn't make her feel like less. He doesn't lock her in a room and stop her from leaving. 

She can still see the library and their rooms. She can see the fires from the explosion Sera caused. She can remember the feel of Solas' magic, purging her mana. Over and over again. How helpless she felt, how trapped.

And she remembers what it was like to die, to watch her lifeless body cradled in his arms. To be able to do nothing. 

She can't do this now. She can't think about any of it. Her lungs ache. Gods, but they do.

"Ellana?" he asks. She steps back before he can touch her.

"I stayed because you didn't give me a choice," she says.

His face. Oh, his face. She sees horror. She sees disbelief. She can see him rolling the words over and over again in his mind, picking them apart. 

"I don't understand," he says.

"I want to talk about the titan," she says. Please, she thinks, don't push this. Let it be.

"I need to talk about this," he says. And he is pleading again. She feels like a beast, hurting him. Even though she knows better. He has earned this. It is not her fault.

"You lied to me," she says, "Again. You told me everyone was dead. You let me think the only elves who survived were your stupid ancient elves. You let me believe it." She thinks Fenris has never lied to her and it is such a strange feeling.

"When I learned the truth, you stopped me from leaving," she says, "You said it was too dangerous. Our enemies would kill me. More lies. _Your_ enemies were the Red Jennies, Sera---my people. That is when you first showed me your city. You left me in a safe house while you rode off to kill them. Solas, this was Sera, my only friend, the last one. Even then, you would have killed her and you didn't care. Do you still wish to talk about this or have you had enough?"

He shakes his head. He looks miserable. She thinks he is going to cry. She doesn't know what she'll do if he does. She doesn't know what she's supposed to feel.

"No. There must be more to it than that," he says, and his voice cracks, "I wouldn't kill unless I had good cause. And I would not hold you against your will." But he would. He did. And thinking about it now makes her chest hurt. It makes the air feel too heavy. 

"I don't know why, Solas," she says, "You kept your secrets carefully guarded. Even from me. Especially from me. I don't want to talk about this."

It is not a comfort to see his face now. She sees real remorse, she sees that damned look of horror. He is sorry for it. Even though he can't remember. But how can she be sure? He is so good at fooling her and she is so good at being fooled.

"There must have been a reason," he insists, "I still love you. I know I do. I know how I feel."

She feels like her stomach is shredding itself. It isn't kind of him to do this. She can't let herself hear it. She doesn't want to lose herself. She wants to wake up. She wants Fenris to wake her. Please, she thinks, but he doesn't. He can't possibly know. 

"We can't, Solas. We aren't together," she says, and she is with someone else now, someone who won't lie to her, someone she can love, "Leave it at that. Please." But it makes her feel worse the moment she says it. After everything he has done, she still doesn't want to hurt him. There is something wrong with her.

He bows his head and tries to make his face passive, unfeeling. She can see through him though. She can see the hurt under the facade. He doesn't understand what has happened or why. 

"I hurt you," he says, "Very badly. For what it's worth, I wish I hadn't."

So does she.

"We need to plan for the titan," she says. She doesn't like the way her voice sounds. She doesn't like the way her hands are shaking. He can see them. He knows what this is doing to her, what he is doing. He is doing this on purpose. He is still the same. Fenris is right again.

"I wish you would tell me everything," he says, instead. 

"I said I don't want to talk about it," she snaps.

She almost wants his memories to be restored so they won't have to talk about this again. He'll remember so he won't ask. He'll know.

 

She is in a fog when she wakes, when they ride to the docks. When they leave the horses behind. She can't get Solas' voice out of her head and she is short with everyone. 

She wants to cry. She wants to scream. 

Fenris is angry for a moment but then his expression shifts. There is a flicker of something, another something she doesn't understand, she can't interpret. He touches her cheek. He kisses her. And she is almost undone. 

It shouldn't make her feel better, but somehow, it does. He does. 

Some of that good feeling evaporates when they reach their destination. She sees the tents around the crater that was Kirkwall and she goes tense. He has brought more than just Abelas. He brought his soldiers even though she told him not to. 

She thinks it is strange that he has made no attempts to hide them. He could have. He could have waited until they were too close to turn back. He could have surrounded her again, taken her prisoner. He could have betrayed her again.

But he didn't.

He is giving them time to make the choice for themselves. That is almost worse.

She sucks in a slow breath. She doesn't know what she's supposed to feel. And her thoughts have stalled. She can only stare. She can only try to keep breathing.

Fenris was right. Solas was always himself, even when he was Fen'Harel. This is just the part he hid. This is the part he didn't let her see until it was too late.

She thinks there are thirty soldiers. Maybe more. She can't tell. They file out of their tents and away from whatever they were doing. They fall in line. They wait.

She feels the bottom drop out of her stomach and she doesn't dare look anywhere but straight ahead. She can already feel the heat of Fenris' gaze. He was right and he knows he was. 

"I believe I called it," Fenris says.

And Mahariel is grumbling. He is patting his pockets, searching for something, and this is starting to look dangerously like something that is going to make her angry. 

"I'll have to pay you later," he says, "I keep my money in the pants Trouble burned." 

"Now is not the time," Velanna says, and the look she gives them says it all. She is disgusted. Lavellan is glad because she is not the only one who doesn't think this is funny.

She is confused. She is teetering on the edge of furious again. They keep doing this. Making bets. Making jokes at her expense. Nothing about this is funny.

And she can see Solas now, far in the distance, in front of his soldiers. She knows it's him because she knows that armor. He watches her, waiting for her to decide. The moment stretches and the rage is gone. She is so filled with despair---but then, she feels the touch of a hand on her shoulder. It is just heavy enough. Just enough to let her know it's there. She isn't alone.

"Are you alright?" Fenris asks.

She covers his hand with her own. She squeezes it. She is not alright. She doesn't know that she will ever be alright.

But there is something to the feel of his hand on her shoulder. There is a small measure of strength she draws from it. He chases some of that broken feeling away. The terrible churning in her stomach settles.

"I've been better," she says, "But yes, I'm alright." She breathes. Nice and slow. Even. She can be steady. She can be calm.

She looks back at him and he gives her the ghost of a smile, little more than the twitch of his lips. She is glad he is here with her for this. She is glad they are all here for this. She is not alone. Fenris lets go, but he doesn't step back. 

And Solas has not moved from his place. He is as still as the stone. She is glad she can't see his face.

"Well, shite, what do we do now?" Sera asks. 

"They see us," Velanna says, "There's nothing we can do but go forward."

Lavellan sighs. She thinks this is going to be a disaster. Something feels wrong. Something feels off and she can't quite put her finger on it.

"They're far enough away," she says, "We can turn back and I don't think they'll follow, but I think that will be a mistake."

Zevran agrees. She can tell he's the only one. Well, maybe Merrill is open to it. She can't be sure. She has been quiet since the crater came into view. She looks heart broken. She looks angry.

"A few of us can approach," Lavellan says, maybe not Merrill, "Mahariel can hang back with the rest." What she wants to say is Mahariel can hang back indefinitely. But then Trouble would stay too and the thought of Trouble alone with Mahariel does not fill her with joy.

"No," Mahariel says, and it comes out ragged---weary, "I think I would much rather get this over with."

She thinks Zevran will protest but he shuts his mouth and looks away. His shoulders are squared, his back rigid. He is angry. He is so angry.

"Are you sure?" she asks, but she is still looking at Zevran.

"I am," Mahariel says.

And then she knows what's wrong. She knows what's different.

Trouble has stopped humming.


	92. On The Waking Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, it could have gone worse.

The soldiers do not surround them. They do not try to disarm them. They do not attack.

But she expects them to. With every second that passes, the feeling gets worse.

Solas doesn't smile---his eyes are sad. He holds back. He waits and he watches. She doesn't want to approach him, but if she lets Mahariel make the first move, it will end in blood.

"Solas," she says, "Why have you brought so many soldiers? We had an agreement. No soldiers. No one but you and Abelas." And Abelas stands beside him, silent and disapproving. She can guess what he thinks of this meeting.

"We can't fight this battle alone, Ellana," Solas says, "I am sorry. I should have told you last night, but I was afraid you wouldn't come. I am weak. I have missed you, vhenan."

She feels Fenris go tense beside her. He doesn't say anything but she knows what is bothering him. She doesn't miss the way Solas' gaze flits past her to him. He said it like that on purpose, to remind him, almost to mark his territory. She sees quite clearly how he feels about Fenris. 

She is not impressed. She is not pleased.

"You should have told me a lot of things," she says, "But it seems you care more for secrets than resolving this conflict."

He hides his reaction. He bows his head.

"If that is how it appears, I apologize," he says, "I want nothing more than to resolve this without bloodshed." His gaze flits to Fenris again and it is too intense. It's as if he's waiting for him to say something. Anything.

But he doesn't. Fenris is quiet. He is seething.

"I assume you have a plan," she says, because he always does.

"Until we know what we're dealing with, no plan would be sufficient," he says, "We must follow the corruption to the source."

"And you have no idea what it is," Fenris says, "I find that hard to believe."

"Yes, I suppose you would," he says. 

She hears Fenris take a breath. 

"I think you're lying," he says, "I think you know exactly what we're going to face."

He takes another breath, and when she looks at his face, she knows. There will be problems.

"Do you?" Solas asks.

"I think you will be content if it kills us," Fenris continues, "It think that's what you're doing." And Solas looks insulted.

"This is getting us nowhere," she says.

"Your friends have already decided this alliance is futile," Solas says, "Perhaps they are right. You can go about your business, and I will face the danger alone. It is unlikely we could work together. They are too concerned with their petty, small minded prejudices to understand the gravity of the situation." Sera makes a rude noise but Solas doesn't care. He doesn't even look. 

Fenris takes a step. She hears the rush of breath. She feels the spike of his anger.

She stops him. She catches his hand. She squeezes it and she thinks he is surprised. His shoulders lose some of their tension. When she looks back at Solas, his expression is blank. He is pretending he didn't see.

"That is unfair," she says, "Do you think it was easy for any of us to come here? We are trying."

"You destroyed the world, Solas," she continues, "What did you expect?" He doesn't answer, but she thinks he hears her. She hopes.

"It doesn't matter what I expected," he says, "You are right, vhenan. You are here. That is all that matters." And now, Sera is laughing. 

"Wow, that's a load," Sera says, "Forgot how you liked to talk. You know what matters? People. You remember, the ones you killed because you wanted more magic." 

And then he does look at her. The mask is still in place and she can't tell what he's thinking. Sera stares right back, hands clenched at her sides---she is a heart beat away from snapping. 

Lavellan is going to intervene, but Solas sees Mahariel. The mask slips and Sera is forgotten. She sees concern. She sees surprise. She sees alarm. 

"It is worse than I thought," he says, "Mahariel must stay behind." But he means, it is too late. He means the corruption has spread too far. He means it would be better to end him now before he turns. But no, he is wrong. Mahariel is not so far gone he can't be saved. Mahariel stares right back at him. He doesn't waver. He doesn't flinch.

"There it is, let me guess," Mahariel says, "Your soldiers would stay to keep me company. I bet they have something special to show me." 

"Sounds about right," Fenris says.

"The corruption makes you dangerous," Solas says, "It could take you over. I would advise any Grey Warden stay behind. But if you'd rather put us all at risk, by all means, go right ahead."

Mahariel laughs and it is not a nice sound. She takes a breath. She wishes Josephine was here because she would know what to say. She could get them back on track. 

She regrets it when she turns, when she catches a glimpse of Zevran's face. He is standing beside Mahariel and he looks hollowed out. He looks like he is hanging on by his finger tips. He looks like---

"Enough of this." The command comes from Velanna but also Abelas. They speak in unison. They glance at each other, surprised, their expressions guarded. And then Abelas tilts his head, it is barely noticeable.

"You are not children," Velanna continues, "Act like it." And Abelas nods, as if he approves. This is a first. Someone he doesn't out right hate? She doesn't know what to think. Perhaps the world is ending again. 

Mahariel doesn't look the least bit remorseful or chastised. But Solas does. Fenris does. 

"If Mahariel won't stay behind, we will take precautions," Abelas says, "It will make things more difficult, but we will adapt."

And the conversation is derailed because Solas sees Trouble. 

"Wait a moment. Who is this?" he asks. He doesn't remember. Of course. He wouldn't. 

Trouble doesn't answer him, but it tears its gaze from Mahariel for a moment to acknowledge him. Perhaps she's imagining it, but she thinks it is angry. There is a hardness, a coldness, she isn't used to seeing in Trouble. She thinks it might hate him. And she is surprised. It was different before. It was friendlier.

Solas looks at her when Trouble doesn't respond.

"You've met. This is Trouble," she says.

He stares in horrified fascination.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks.

"You told me," she says, "Two souls fused together. Trouble is made from an Archdemon and the Grey Warden who killed it."

"Do you remember your real name?" Solas asks it, but Trouble doesn't answer. It looks at him. It looks through him.

"Do you understand me?" Solas asks after a moment. But it is futile. He will not get an answer, no matter how patient he is.

"Trouble has stopped talking," she says, "It's the song." At least, she assumes it's the song. It's possible Trouble can speak just fine, but chooses not to. It can't burn any more pants, perhaps this is the next best thing.

But she doubts that is true.

It doesn't like Solas. It can barely stand to look at him. 

"I'm not sure that's all it is," Solas says, and he doesn't sound convinced, "There's something wrong with it." She knows he's right, but admitting she doesn't know what is difficult. Especially to him. She feels inadequate again. Stupid.

And that is silly. Solas is thousands of years old. She can not be expected to match him. He would know more about this. If he says there's something wrong, something more to it than just the song, he is right. 

"Trouble should stay behind as well---" His voice breaks when he sees Cole. He goes pale, terribly pale. This is worse than Trouble somehow. Much, much worse.

"What have you done?" he asks.

Cole steps back. He doesn't answer. And Solas looks at her as if this is her fault, as if she did this. _What have you done?_

He is angry. With her. 

"Just when I think it can't get any worse," he says, "It does. It always does. You have no idea what you've done." 

"She didn't do anything wrong," Cole says, "I make my own choices now." But it is her fault. She stole the shard from Solas. Cole wouldn't have taken it if not for her.

And Solas has forgotten to breathe. He sputters. He covers his mouth and his eyes are too wide. She can't even muster up her usual rage. What does he see when he looks at Cole? Why is he so furious? Horrified? Cole has fixed himself with the pieces of Falon'Din. He is better. He is. He has to be.

"You can not control him," he says, "Falon'Din is worse than a disease. He will eat away at you. He will take over. He will destroy everything you hold dear." But he took the shard of Falon'Din into himself first. He didn't seem to think it was dangerous then, even after she tried to tell him he was changing, he was different. So far, Cole has fared much better. She wonders what Solas would say if she told him. Because clearly, Abelas hasn't bothered.

And Cole is not worried. He shakes his head. 

"He can't do anything now," he says, and the way he says it makes Lavellan shiver. There is something sinister about it. Something dark. But that is ridiculous because Falon'Din was a monster and this is better than he deserves. Cole is fine. They are all fine.

"Oh Cole," he says, and he sounds like the world is ending again.

And she can't help it, she is afraid.

 

They rest away from Solas' camp and Merrill is as quiet as Fenris. She sits off to the side and Lavellan thinks it looks like she's trying to make herself smaller. She's trying to hide.

Sera kisses her cheek. She whispers something in her ear and Merrill shakes her head. Lavellan turns away because she feels like she is seeing something private, intruding somehow.

"Well," Mahariel says, he looks at Zevran, but Zevran won't face him, "This is going to be fun. I can already feel it." He is wearing an earring, a gold hoop through his earlobe. It doesn't seem new but this is the first she's seen him wear it.

For once, Trouble is not sitting beside him, plastered to his side. It is content to sit quietly, gazing at nothing. 

Abelas is watching. He doesn't try to hide. But Solas has retreated into one of the tents. To think. To plan. He says he wants to speak with her later, but she hasn't decided if she will, if she dares. Maybe she should. Or maybe it's going to be an even bigger mistake than coming here.

Fenris sits beside her. She catches him staring.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says, he looks away.

But he takes her hand. He kisses her palm. He sighs.


	93. Pieces of a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thinks this is a cruel joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to be further along by July, but things happen. Updates will be a little slower than they have been. I'll know more when I get further into the month.

She knows she should let him stew in his tent. She should refuse to see him, but she relents. She thinks there's a chance he will be sensible, he will listen. Maybe he will.

But she is not going to talk with him in his tent, alone. She is not that stupid. They will walk where everyone can see them. They will stand out in the open air where there will be no confusion.

She tells Abelas. He gives her a curt nod and then he leaves. And Fenris is staring at her.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"No," she says.

He looks at the ground. He goes quiet. But he doesn't argue. He doesn't tell her he doesn't trust her. 

Then, Fenris makes a sound she can't interpret, and when she looks up, she sees Solas, standing a good distance away. The two are staring at each other. She may as well be invisible.

This is not going to be fun, she thinks. But she goes. She leaves Fenris sitting with Sera and Merrill. She tries to pretend there is a real chance this could end with peace and a real plan.

She is not so foolish she truly believes it though. She hopes, but that is all it is. A hope. A dream. A lie she wants so desperately to hold on to.

"I hadn't realized," Solas says, when they are safely out of earshot, "You have moved on. I have made this awkward. I apologize."

He has, but he doesn't sound like he means it. He sounds angry. He looks angry. She ignores it, she pretends he hasn't said anything at all. She will not go fishing for the truth behind his emotions. If he wants to say something, he will have to say it. Out loud. With words. He has so many of them, it shouldn't be a problem.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asks. 

He pauses. He tilts his head. He looks at her.

"We have four problems," he says.

"Only four?"

He doesn't smile.

"Only to start," he says, "The first and most pressing is Mahariel and Trouble. The closer we are to the corruption, the worse they will be. I understand Mahariel won't stay behind. But that will prove to be a mistake."

"He isn't going to listen to me," she says, "Or anyone. He has made up his mind." 

Solas is quiet for a moment, considering. 

"We will have to be vigilant," he says, "Watch for the progression of the corruption. Enlist Cole to help. He would know what to look for better than anyone." But it is silly to talk about this because Cole is likely already doing it. He has spent so much time with Mahariel already, she thinks that might have been his goal all along. 

"That brings me to our second problem. When we resolve this," Solas continues, "If we resolve it, there is the matter of Falon'Din and Cole. The two must be separated. Falon'Din is too dangerous. He will consume Cole. It is only a matter of time."

"It is a shame you've lost your memories," she says, "Because I would like to know what you were thinking when you took him on yourself. Has Abelas told you?"

He looks pained. He looks at the sky and he breathes. 

"Yes," he says, "I---there were reasons. They make little sense now, but at the time I'm sure I believed them. To be fair, I may not have told Abelas everything."

That is not good enough. She is teetering on the edge of anger and frustration. She is close to tipping over, yelling at him.

"And what did Abelas tell you?" she asks, her voice sharp, hard, "Because I could never get any kind of an answer out of you." Not one that made sense. Not one that wasn't insulting.

"It doesn't matter what they were. Ultimately the decision was mine and it was wrong," he says, "I barely recognize myself." The last part is little more than a sigh.

This is not a conversation she wants to have. She is not prepared for it. She is not ready.

"I don't know that Cole will accept our help," she says. But he needs to. If it is as bad as Solas is suggesting---and this time, she can't help but believe him. Cole has gotten himself into trouble.

"He might if we explain it," Solas says. But she can hear it in his voice, he doesn't believe he will. And why would he? Cole has been surrounded by their bad decisions for far too long to trust their judgment anymore. 

"What are the other two problems?" she asks. She can think of one thing that might be more pressing than Mahariel or Cole. The war perhaps, the conflict between his People and hers. But she isn't sure what the last thing could be.

He looks out at the waves, his shoulders stiff, his hands clasped behind his back. She is struck by the image. It is the way he looked in the mountains when he told her about Skyhold for the first time. He was so severe then, warning her the humans could turn the blame on her shoulders. Now, they are gone, and she has gotten so very good at heaping blame on herself. Better than they ever were.

"There must be an end to the fighting," he says, "If we continue on as we are, there will be no one left."

It is hard to disagree. She has wanted it to end for a very long time. She wants peace. She wants quiet. But she doesn't know how to convince Mahariel. She doesn't know if Sera is willing.

"My People do not want to be ruled," she says. They will not be pushed into slavery. They will not be forced into servitude.

He stiffens and she is surprised he can get any worse. He is already so impossibly tense. The sight of it makes her back ache a little.

"The world is big enough for all of us," he says, "I have no desire to rule you."

She doesn't think she hears him correctly. She doesn't believe she's awake and this is real. The other shoe will drop. The mask will come off. He'll say something horrible. It's just a matter of asking the right question.

She doesn't want to ask the right question. Let it be. Let him be this way. And let it be the truth.

Her chest hurts. Her eyes. Her face.

"You will have to rein in your soldiers," she says, and she feels like she should be cautious, "No more patrols." This is going better than it should. It is bound to fall apart.

She expects a protest, an immediate refusal. She expects mild outrage or amusement. She expects finger pointing and blame shifting. What she does not expect is an explanation. He has not given her a real one in so long, she almost doesn't recognize it.

"The patrols were not meant for them," he says.

It is calm and quiet and she almost doesn't hear him. She is taken aback.

"Who were they meant for then?" she asks, because that can't be the truth. It is another lie, said to trick her into softening for him. To make her lower her guard. She is not letting him paint over the past. She is not letting him confuse her.

"Abelas tells me it was to search for signs the corruption was spreading," he says, "But we were not--- _I_ was not welcome in Kirkwall. At the time, I believed the Grey Wardens were being affected, and now I know I was...incorrect."

"This is my fault," he says, and his expression twists. She sees disgust but she can't tell who it's for, him or the people of Kirkwall, "They saw my forces and panicked. After everything I had done, they had no reason to believe my intentions were good. I was just the monster who destroyed their world. I know.Yes, vhenan, Abelas has told me everything he can." The steel is gone from his voice. There is only regret. 

It is his fault. She knows, but it is hard to hear it, coming from him. She is just waiting to wake up.

"I should have asked for your help," he says, "I don't know why I didn't. Whatever excuse I gave myself, it is lost with my memories. Nothing I say will be adequate. Nothing Abelas has told me makes sense."

Her breath is caught in her throat. It is a sharp pain. It is twisting. And she does not want to be here for this. She can't hear him talk to her like he's himself again. He's rational again. He's reasonable again. No. He doesn't get to do this to her. He doesn't get to turn everything upside down.

Where was this man when the world was ending? Where was he afterward? 

She doesn't know how she hasn't lost her mind yet. She thinks she should have by now. Maybe this will be thing that finally pushes her over the edge.

But he said there were four things they needed to discuss. Four problems. And that was only the third.

"What was the fourth problem?" she asks. Her voice is not steady. No doubt he is noting it, filing it away for later.

He is quiet.

"Solas?" she asks. And fear nags at her. The voice of doubt tells her this is it, this is when he goes back on his word, changes his mind. This is when she is hit with something that will make her regret coming here, giving him a chance.

"It is unimportant now," he says at last. But then he turns. He looks at her and she knows the look in his eyes. She knows what he means and what he wants. She feels the heat of it. So familiar. 

The last thing, whatever it is, it is about her. It is about him. It is about the two of them and she is glad he decided not to tell her. 

He doesn't get to toy with her like that and then look at her like she's the only light left in the world. 

"It is selfish to hope you can forgive me," he says, "But I am selfish. I am weak. I want to believe there's a chance that someday you might---"

She is shaking---she can't steady her hands. No, she thinks, and she is angry. She is so very angry. He doesn't get to be like this now, not after everything. 

Abelas comes to her rescue. His expression is severe. Disapproving again.

"We are ready," he says. He knows what he has interrupted. She suspects he tried to talk Solas out of speaking to her at all. He regrets that he failed. 

She regrets that he failed.

Solas shakes himself. He looks away.

"Yes," he says, "We have a long journey. We should be on our way."

She retreats. She stumbles over her feet and she can't move fast enough. Fenris catches her arm. He stops her, and she is still too angry to say anything. She shakes her head when he asks what's wrong. She doesn't know what she can say. She feels like Solas is toying with her. She feels like he is being cruel. But then she thinks maybe he isn't, maybe he's genuine, and that is so much worse.

She sees Fenris' face and for a moment he looks terrible. She sees doubt. Fear again. So much hurt. He is probably thinking she has changed her mind, she has been swayed. She can see it in his eyes. He thinks she is going to leave him and go back to Solas. But he's wrong.

He starts to step back, to move, but she slips her arms around him. She pulls him in. She shuts her eyes. She holds on.

And he sighs.


	94. Mahariel's Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lyrium has spread.

The earth crumbles when Solas clears the tunnel. The ground does not feel stable at first, but it settles, it seems to reinforce itself, solidify---and everyone is quiet. Solas doesn't struggle with the spell. He seems just as strong as he was.

The stone obeys.

And as they descend into the darkness, as they follow _him_ , she can't help but wonder why. Surely this is a mistake.

 

Trouble walks close in Mahariel's shadow. Cole tries to put himself between them several times. He fails. He looks frustrated but he is determined.

He tries again.

He fails again. Trouble slips around him every time. It starts to slip through him once but jolts away---as if it has been burned.

She never thought she would miss Trouble's terrible humming, but she wishes it would start again. She wishes it would make some kind of sound. She wishes there was something to take her mind of all of this.

When she looks at it with the Sight, she wishes she hadn't. It is rippling with red energy. It's edges are blurred, fuzzy and it reminds her a little of melting ice of a drop of ink in a glass of water. She feels worse when she looks at Mahariel.

He is still tainted with the Blight and he is still threaded with Elgarn'nan's magic. But there is red too, creeping out from Trouble, leeching into him. She doesn't know exactly what it means, but she knows what it looks like.

It is like the early stages of possession. It is like a demon wearing its intended host down.

Trouble is not a demon. It's not an archdemon anymore either. It has no real power. Or rather, it had no real power. But it is doing something now. It is different. It is changing.

Solas was right again. Allowing it and Mahariel to come along is a mistake.

 

There are red crystals blocking the tunnel. The soldiers hang back. They wait while Solas investigates.

And she joins him. She remembers the route they took. There should have been three tunnels and only one of them blocked. But two are completely blocked and the third is questionable. It was not tainted quite like this before. There were not so many crystals.

Something has changed.

"You should stay back," Solas says, "I will go ahead and see if it is passable." His voice is too sharp and he looks at her like she's a child playing with knives. He doesn't hide his fear. And the look he gives Fenris when he follows is like ice. She can guess what he's thinking. He wants him to go, to disappear. He doesn't know Fenris though---the glare does not chase him away.

Fenris makes a harsh sound. He crosses his arms over his chest. He pretends Abelas isn't mimicking his pose. He pretends Solas is just an irritating sound and not the Dread Wolf. And she is getting a headache.

"If you are going forward," he says, "We are going forward."

"What makes you think we trust you to send you on ahead?" he asks.

Solas bristles.

"I do not care if you trust me or not," he says, "If you wish to be foolish and infect yourself with red lyrium, by all means, carry on, be my guest."

Fenris narrows his eyes. He doesn't speak. He doesn't back down.

"Perhaps you'd rather go first," Solas says, "I am sure know better than I what to look for."

"Solas," she says, she doesn't know why he's reacting like this, but it seems excessive. He is too tense again. 

"I know well enough," Fenris says, "If we're only determining whether the tunnel is passable. Or was there something else you were looking for?" 

"Fenris," she says, but he ignores her too. 

She shoots Mahariel a glance, hoping he'll help, but he is preoccupied. He is staring at the lyrium, a far away look on his face. And Sera is backed up as far as she can get, Merrill at her side. And Velanna looks pained. Zevran is...he is unreadable again. There will be no rescue from this.

"You seem upset, Dread Wolf," Fenris says, "Perhaps you should stay behind. Collect your wits. Something has disturbed you."

Abelas stiffens, ready to intervene, and she thinks this is getting out of hand.

"Enough," she says.

Solas doesn't soften. He doesn't relent. 

"Both of you, stop," she says. Fenris, at the very least, acknowledges her. But Solas' expression darkens.

"This is not the red lyrium you remember," Solas says, "This is more potent."

"And you think you are immune?" she asks, she can't disguise her horror. He is not immune. She remembers very well what happened to him once before, in that nightmare future, in Redcliffe.

"I am not immune," he says.

"But you think you know better," she says. And Trouble drifts closer. It basks in the light of the lyrium. It doesn't speak but it looks like a cat resting in a sunbeam, happy and sleepy.

"Please, stay back," he says. 

But Solas isn't talking to Trouble or even Fenris. He's talking to her. Because of course he is. Barking orders, expecting her to comply. No. She doesn't care for this.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," she says. She is not so stupid she's going to put it in her mouth or rub it on her body. She knows how dangerous it is.

He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. She wonders if he's counting to ten. She thinks he probably is. And Fenris is muttering again.

"Very well," Solas says.

She thinks she must not have heard him right. He is not fighting her on this? He is giving in?

"We came this way before," she says, "Only one of the tunnels was destroyed."

"Yes, I know," he says. Oh. That's right. She remembers he said he followed. He found June's temple. He would have had to have come this way.

"It is only going to get worse," he says, he sounds weary. He looks weary.

It doesn't matter how dangerous it is. She doesn't trust him to take care of the problem alone. After Valta and the Titan, she doesn't trust him at all. Not even to save his People. Not even then.

They follow him, one at a time, through the narrow passage. They keep their backs to the wall and do their best to avoid contact with the lyrium. They make it through. There is just enough room.

 

They pass June's temple. They make good time.

She recognizes the cavern when they stop to rest. It is one of their campsites---from when they fled Kirkwall. The soldiers do not bother with tents, but they spread out, they cast wisps to give them light. They shake out bedrolls and sit where ever they can. Solas stays near Abelas.

He takes a book out of his pack. He pretends to read.

It is probably for the best he stays where he is surrounded. Sera has been eying him and Lavellan knows the look on her face. She recognizes that fury. He's the reason Dagna is dead. He is the reason everyone is dead.

And Fenris is not much warmer than Sera.

When they sleep, they break off into shifts. Fenris takes the first---Lavellan joins him. She is not comfortable sleeping with Solas so close, not until she knows Merrill's spell is going to work. And Mahariel says much the same. 

Sera and Velanna will take the next shift. And Zevran and Merrill will take the third. And then there's Cole and Trouble. If something goes wrong, they can count on Cole.

Mahariel rubs his hands. They look almost painfully stiff. He starts to reach for one of the bags, but stops. He curses, a look of irritation crossing his face.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"I usually bring something to work on," he says, "I didn't have a chance this time. I left it all behind in Weisshaupt."

"To work on?" she asks.

He makes a face.

"My hands aren't what they once were," he says, "I...sew to loosen them up. Don't laugh. It works."

"Why would I laugh?" she asks.

"Most people do," he says.

"Why?" she asks, mystified, "Who?" It is not a new concept. She has seen warriors sewing and weaving before---it was not an unusual sight around the clan's campfires. But Mahariel shrugs. He doesn't really answer.

Solas doesn't ask to speak to her again, but she catches Abelas staring, frowning. She wonders what he's thinking.

 

She wakes to the sound of muttering. There is a warm body pressed to her back, an arm wrapped around her waist. She feels it tighten. She feels the body shift. Fenris has wrapped himself around her while they slept.

But he is not the source of the voice. She opens her eyes and she sees Mahariel, restless again. She hears ancient dwarven words.

Solas is listening---she sees him standing by the fire. She sees his gaze flit to Mahariel. She sees it shift to her then past her to Fenris and she sees the flicker of hurt there. And it twists in her gut. She doesn't want to see it. She doesn't.

 _Trouble_ is listening to Mahariel.

Zevran touches his shoulder. He tries to wake him. The response is a snarl. 

"Theron," he says, and he shakes him a little. Mahariel grabs his wrist and starts to twist it, knocking him off balance. He snaps his teeth at his throat. He comes too close.

Zevran manages to slip out of his hold, to roll, and he looks worse than if Mahariel had struck him.

"Theron, stop," he says, his voice firm and loud and impossible to ignore. 

Mahariel wakes with a start. He looks around, confused, his eyes dark, glassy. It takes a moment for the confusion to clear.

"What's wrong?" he asks. And he realizes he is sprawled half off his bed roll.

"It happened again," Zevran says, "You're getting worse."

Her breath catches. Again? She knows Mahariel talks in his sleep, but the way Zevran says it, she thinks he is talking about the rest of it. He has grabbed him before. He has tried to hurt him before. If that is true, how could they not have noticed?

Zevran is still on his knees. He is breathing a little too hard.

"You shouldn't be here," Zevran insists.

Mahariel is quiet. He catches Zevran's arm. He tries to get him to look at him.

"I'm fine," he insists.

Zevran answers in Antivan and she can tell Mahariel only understands some of it. His brow furrows in concentration. He stumbles over his response and he is frustrated. He gives up. He switches back to Common.

"I'm trying," he says.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks. But Zevran pulls away. He moves back to his place by the fire, next to Merrill. She can't interpret his expression, but it isn't good. It isn't happy.

"I'm sorry," Mahariel says, he looks miserable.

She doesn't want to be here for this. She doesn't want to hear them fight.

Solas' soldiers are listening intently. They are watching. They are far too curious because this is a weakness they can exploit. It can be used to divide them further. She catches a glimpse of Abelas and she doesn't like the intensity of his stare.

She starts to sit up but Fenris utters a sleepy protest. He tugs her back down. He moves her braid out of the way---he kisses the back of her neck. 

"Too soon," he mutters. And he is right. She is tired. They won't move on for a couple of hours still. But she doesn't know if she can go back to sleep.

She does manage to drift off again, but her sleep is far from restful. She dreams of red lyrium in the Emprise du Lion. She dreams of Redcliffe and Dorian again. She dreams of Solas, corrupted and dying. She wakes, sweating and gasping.

And it is time to move on.


	95. Closer, Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sha-Brytol come.

There is a moment when the Sha-Brytol come. She is cut off from the rest of them. There is only Solas at her side and she wonders how he got there. He pulls her out of the way, he blocks a sword blow with his staff.

More warriors flood their path. Solas pushes her back. He moves them both further away, in the wrong direction. She is not stupid. She knows what he's doing. 

She side steps his next attempt to help. She forces her mind to clear and she burns the warriors, as many as she can. They turn to ashes. They disintegrate.

Solas stops short. He looks at her, his expression unreadable.

She is not letting him separate her from the rest of the group. But when she glares at him, when she tries to move back into the main cavern, the tunnel quakes. The ceiling cracks. Heavy pieces break loose. They fall, blocking the tunnel and trapping her with him.

He did this on purpose. The rest of the group, hers and his, are fighting the Sha-Brytol and he has pulled her away like it's nothing. She is beyond furious.

"Now is not the time," she says.

"They are fine without us," he says, "We must speak."

He dares. He truly does.

"Now is not the time," she repeats, "Clear the tunnel."

"No," he says.

"Not until I have said what needs to be said," he says, "Hate me all you want, but do not jeopardize the mission because of it."

She stares at him and some of her rage dissipates, but not nearly enough. She doesn't hate him. She doesn't really think she does. She is furious though. She doesn't think she will ever stop being quite so angry.

Maybe it is a kind of hate. Or maybe not.

Her people are fighting for their lives and he wants to talk. Really.

"What is so important you have to talk to me right this instant?" she asks. She snaps at him. She can't soften her tone.

His expression shifts. It darkens. He looks almost as angry as she feels. She doubts she wants to hear his answer.

"We are close," he says, "We will have to make a decision. When Mahariel starts to turn, Velanna will have to kill him."

She doesn't know what to say.

"You're joking," She says. 

"Velanna is the only Grey Warden, is she not?" he asks, "As I understand it, she is the only one qualified to kill an archdemon." And if she has been told correctly, it will kill her. She will be broken, lost, shattered. No. He is mad if he thinks she wants to talk about that with him, right now.

"I am sorry, but it must be done," he says. He has misinterpreted the look on her face. She is not upset because she doesn't believe him. She's upset because he's taken her away from the fight to tell her this. She knows how to kill an archdemon. She knows just how few Grey Wardens she has in her group. She already knows.

"Now is definitely not the time for this discussion," she says, "Clear the tunnel." She is not thinking about Mahariel or Velanna right now. She won't.

He presses his lips together. He grips his staff too tight---he leans on it as he looks down at her. 

"I'm not finished," he says.

"No, you are," she says. But he isn't moved. He waits, his expression growing stormier with each passing moment. He can't be serious, she thinks, but he is. He waits.

She can't hear the fighting through the rock, but she knows it's still going on, it's still happening. She doesn't have time for this.

Her fists clench at her sides.

"Damn it, Solas, fine," she says, "What else? What other horrible thing do you need to tell me?"

He doesn't soften. He doesn't look appeased.

"I'm not doing this to hurt you," he says.

"You pulled me aside in the middle of a fight to tell me two of my friends are going to have to die," she says, "I don't care why you're doing it. Just stop." 

Please, she thinks. And he stares at her a long moment before he continues. She almost thinks there's a chance he'll listen and put this off for a more appropriate time. But he doesn't. Because, of course, he never does. 

"Speak with Fenris. He must stay back with Mahariel and Trouble," he says, "He is at a far greater risk for contamination than the rest of us. He'll listen if you're the one to tell him. The lyrium---"

Her breath catches. She feels a bubble of wild laughter roll up in her chest, threatening to explode. He isn't joking, but he should be. Because that is the funniest thing she's heard him say.

"He's not going to agree to that." Neither Mahariel nor Fenris. She doubts she can get them to listen. She knows she wouldn't.

"If you care for him at all, you'll convince him," Solas says. The urge to laugh dies. He may as well have slapped her. 

"If I care for him---really, Solas, I don't even know what to say to you," she says. If she cares for Fenris---as if Solas can't already tell, as if he doesn't already know. She is shaking a little.

"Then don't say anything," he says, "Just listen."

"If the titan is the source of this, if it is to blame---and I think it probably is, it has been festering for many centuries," he says, "The lyrium is far more potent than the lyrium you've encountered. The titan's influence will be stronger. You could lose them both."

Somehow, it isn't a threat. His tone suggests he is genuine in his concern, but whether he is or not, she doesn't know. She doesn't want to risk Fenris. She doesn't want to risk Mahariel. But they are both just as stubborn as Solas.

"Talk to them," he says, "Please. Convince them to stay here." 

But she still doesn't understand why he needed to pull her aside in the middle of a fight to ask her this. It seems wrong. No. It is wrong. He could have talked to her after. He could have talked to all of them. They don't have to hear this from her.

She sighs.

"Fine," she says, "I'll talk to them, but they'll do what they wish. I have no power over them."

And she is uncomfortable again. He is wearing a strange expression. He is looking at her and she doesn't like it. 

"Will you please clear the tunnel?" she asks. The look twists. He is far too tense---

He drops his staff. He kisses her instead. 

She opens her mouth in surprise---she tries to protest, but he takes advantage of it. She feels the glide of his tongue. She feels the pull of his lips. She feels the air rush out of her.

He pushes her back against the wall, caging her body with his, and the suddenness of it all makes her a little dizzy. He kisses her like he can't breathe without her. He kisses her like he has no choice. 

It would be so easy to melt into this, to forget herself. But she can't. It hurts too much. It always does. She gets her arm against his chest. She shoves him back, hard.

"What are you doing?" she asks, "Stop!" He lets go. He steps back. His lips look a little swollen, his eyes are dark. She sees a jumble of emotions on his face.

"Don't do that again," she says. And her voice is far from steady. She is breathy. She is trembling and she hates it. 

"I---I'm sorry," he says, "That was foolish."

It was. He is---this is---he can't. No. She catches her breath. She struggles with it.

"This is harder than I thought it would be," he says and he sounds terrible. He looks terrible. 

"Clear the tunnel," she says, and her voice cracks, "Please." It takes everything she has just to get it out. She doesn't want to talk. She wants to run.

He nods. His shoulders slump but the rocks shift. Dust clouds muddy the air. The tunnel clears.

The fighting has stopped, she realizes. They took too long. The Sha-Brytol are dead and the rest of the group has noticed their absence. She hears Fenris before she sees him. She hears Abelas. They are screaming at each other.

They look at the tunnel, at her, at Solas, they come rushing towards them. She sees relief in their eyes, but then, Fenris looks past her. She sees his face darken. She sees fury. She doesn't want to know how he'll look when she tells him Solas kissed her. She has a feeling this is a pale shadow of what it will be.

"What happened?" Velanna asks. She intervenes before anyone can say something they'll regret.

"The tunnel collapsed," Solas says. 

Yes, she thinks, because you collapsed it. But she can't bring herself to say it. 

"Are you alright?" Fenris asks. He touches her arm. 

"I'm fine," she says, "Are you?"

He nods. He wants to yell at Solas, she can tell. He isn't fooled. He knows there is more to it than just a cave in. He knows and she is surprised he doesn't press for the truth. 

He lets it sit where it is. He contents himself with giving Solas a threatening glare. 

"Let us take a moment to rest," Solas says. He doesn't look at her but she knows what he means. He wants her to speak with Mahariel and Fenris now. He wants them to stay here. He wants her to insist. She is not ready for this conversation. 

Gods, but she isn't.

It goes about as well as expected. 

Mahariel laughs until he cries. He falls over. He makes a spectacle of himself. Fenris grumbles.

"Absolutely not," Mahariel says when he can breathe again, "But he gets points for trying. No. We aren't staying here so he can finishing fucking us over."

"It seems we agree for once," Fenris says. 

Zevran is quiet. He disagrees, but he has resigned himself to it. He doesn't try to change his mind because it is impossible. And Sera is grinning.

"Can I be the one to tell him?" she asks, "Kind of want to see the look on his face---ooh wait, hey, there he is! Sol-ass! Blow it out your ears why don't you? We're not splitting up!" She shouts at him. She dissolves into hysterical giggles.

She gives him a rude gesture that has him scowling. He looks away, at Abelas.

Merrill sighs and shakes her head.

"I know he was your friend once, but do you really think it's wise to taunt the Dread Wolf?" she asks.

"Ha!" Sera says, "No. Not friends. Not ever."

She doesn't know why it bothers her to hear Sera say that. They were never friends, she knows it. But they fought alongside each other once. They were allies once. 

She is with Merrill on this. It doesn't seem wise to taunt him. And she doesn't want to listen to it.

"We'll adjust our strategy then," Velanna says, "We'll make this work." She sounds like she doesn't believe it. She sounds like she's worried, and Lavellan doesn't blame her. She has a terrible feeling about it all. It sits in the pit of her stomach, burning. The thought of Fenris succumbing to the titan's corruption is terrible. The thought that it could be entirely avoidable is even worse. And if it goes wrong because they ignored Solas' advice...that is too much to bear.


	96. Ice and Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find the titan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was going to die and Lavellan was going to get sent back in time, but then I decided I didn't want to hit a hard reset on everything.
> 
> Short chapter is short.

They find the titan.

The air seems to shiver. It is dark and then it isn't. There is a sickly red pulse---sluggish and veined with black. It is worse than the heart in June's temple. Perhaps because it's still connected to the Titan. It isn't being preserved by Evanuris magic.

Mahariel is silent, but Trouble starts to hum again. It drifts closer. It pushes ahead. It is going to do something foolish.

Her breath rushes out. She fights the urge to call to it, to run after it.

Solas makes a strangled sound. He clenches his fist and he goes impossibly tense.

"This is already going so well," he says.

"Trouble, stop," Merrill says.

It doesn't listen. Because of course it doesn't. It drifts right up to the heart---it pauses. It seems to consider the pulse of the thing, and then, it slips inside it.

She should be screaming, she thinks, because this can't be good.

It is too quiet.

And then, it isn't.

Mahariel doubles over. 

"Theron---" Zevran tries, but he is pushing him away. He tries to stand tall. He tries to continue on, but he can't. He groans. He sinks to his knees.

"Don't," he says, "I'm fine." But he isn't fine.

"You aren't fine, you fool," Solas says, "You're changing---"

"I'm fine, Dread Wolf," he says, "I've faced far worse than this." Zevran tries to haul him back up, but he can't. Mahariel's legs won't work. He collapses and then he is screaming.

The heart shudders. Magic pulses out from it. She can hear something, just the faintest murmur of sound. It is almost a hum. And it is getting louder.

The guardian, she realizes. She remembers when they first fought one. That's what it must be. 

The ground quakes a little. The stones shift. Red light sparks out from the heart and threads through it, pulling it together. It stands on unsteady legs. It turns toward them.

"Trouble?" Merrill asks. 

It doesn't answer and Lavellan doesn't know. It isn't like the other guardian. This one is misshapen. It is just as sluggish as the heart beat. It is sick. If Trouble is in there somewhere, it may already be lost.

Mahariel makes another pained noise. He is pale. He is sweating. There are dark veins rippling across his skin.

"Get him out of here," she says. She looks at Zevran, but he is already trying to drag him back. Merrill helps. Cole helps. 

He fights them. He struggles. He screams.

The guardian hits the ground and the force of it sends them sprawling. She is stunned for a moment, face down in the dirt, but someone touches her arm, pulls her up. She sees Solas' face, his concern.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

She nods, "You?"

But some of his soldiers are not alright. Some of them are dead, broken, bleeding. They weren't ready for the force of it. They were caught off guard. 

Solas sends a wave of ice to block the guardian's path. He stalls it. It gives his soldiers a chance to work around behind it. And Velanna lays down an ice storm. The stone frosts over. It ices. It cracks.

This is like before, when they fought June's corrupted priest. 

She hits it with stonefist. She thinks it will shatter, she hopes, but it doesn't. It stumbles. It sinks down, but then it is getting up again. Solas blasts it with ice. He drives it back.

Sera fires a volley into it's chest. 

Lavellan sees Mahariel get to his feet. She sees him stumble and Zevran and Cole are trying to haul him back out of the way. He is fighting this, whatever it is, but she doesn't know how long he can hold on.

Solas casts a barrier before the guardian strikes the ground again, before it sends another wave of corrupted energy. She had forgotten what it was like, but his magic settles over her and it is warm. It is welcome. She feels protected.

And he is stronger now. The barrier doesn't shatter, it holds under the guardian's assault.

She casts immolate. She throws wave after wave of fire at it. And then Merrill is securing it in thorny vines. They burn when her fire hits, but they don't disintegrate. They blacken a little. They shrivel a little, but they hold on.

Abelas gets behind the thing when Velanna casts another ice storm. When it frosts over, he hits it with what looks like a shimmering spirit blade. A chunk of it breaks off. 

It screams. And then Fenris is there too, hitting it again. They dart under its blows, dodging, ducking, shattering pieces of it. The thing staggers. It struggles. 

Solas hits it with another ice blast, and she casts stonefist again, it is finished. The guardian falls. It shatters. It dies.

And they are all still alive.

Mahariel is still standing, swords in hand, still moving, and Solas looks like he's going to stop him, kill him. Abelas looks like he might if no one else does. And Zevran is horrified.

"What are you doing?" Fenris asks, his hisses it and Mahariel doesn't so much as glance his way. He continues on, his gaze fixed on the sickly pulse of the heart.

It was bad before, but it's going to get worse. He is a fool. They are going to have to kill him.

She doesn't want to kill him.

"Mahariel, stop," she says.

But he doesn't until he's standing before the damn thing. 

Mahariel stares at it for a long moment. Then, he plunges the starmetal sword into the titan's heart. The it shrivels and blackens. The heart turns to dust, and when it does, Mahariel collapses, sputtering. The sword falls beside him, brilliant as always, just as beautiful.

The heart is gone, and Mahariel is injured, but alive. They are all still alive. Solas was wrong. 

Zevran rushes to his side. He gets him onto his back.

"Idiot," he says, "What were you thinking?" Mahariel grins in between coughs, he touches his cheek. He kisses him.

"It always works out in the end," he says, "What? Don't look at me like that." Zevran is not amused. he is not pleased. He is seething.

"Braska!" he says, he starts to pull away. It is as a strange thing to see Zevran angry. Rage looks so out of place in his eyes.

Mahariel pulls him back down. He kisses him again and the rage melts away. It looks like they've both forgotten they need to breathe.

"I can't hear it anymore," Mahariel says, when they break for air. His smile is soft. 

There is no sign of Trouble. 

"We fared better than we should have," Solas says.

But he has spoken too soon. The ground shakes. The ceiling cracks. Dust showers down on them.

"Shit," Mahariel says. and Zevran helps him to his feet. Fenris gets on the other side of him---he helps. And they have to run.

The cavern collapses.


	97. Her Troubled Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is right again.

When the dust settles, Solas stops. He turns. He looks at Mahariel, and his soldiers are quiet. The ground is still, but it doesn't feel safe. Every few seconds debris tumbles down from the ceiling of the blocked tunnel. Cole is gone. She doesn't know where or when he vanished, but she thinks he must still be somewhere close, invisible, watching.

Lavellan doesn't like the look on Solas' face. She doesn't like it at all.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

Solas looks at her.

"You already know," he says, "The death of the titan has only bought us some time."

Mahariel laughs. He is still propped up between Fenris and Zevran. He is still too weak to stand on his own, too weak to fight. 

The blocked tunnel seems to shift a little, the rocks grinding together, settling. Another cloud of dust swirls around their ankles. She tells herself it's fine. She tells herself it is normal.

"Of course," Mahariel says, "This is the part where you try to kill me."

"I believe we can resolve this without another death," Solas says, "But you must surrender Elgar'nan's power. You are still corrupted by the taint. You will continue to change. You are still becoming an archdemon."

"Let me guess, you're more than willing to take on the burden for me," Mahariel says.

"It need not be me," he says, "We can put the power anywhere, but it can't stay with you. Unless you wish to die and take Velanna with you. She will have to be the one to kill you, should you turn."

"He is right. It is a small thing to sacrifice to save your life," Zevran says.

She sees the rocks blocking the tunnel shift again. She sees another cloud of dust. 

"I'm not giving it to him," Mahariel says.

And Solas is scowling. He is crossing his arms. He is looking a little too intently at Mahariel's face. But Lavellan agrees with Mahariel about that. Solas is not taking the power for himself. He can't be trusted with it.

"What part did you misunderstand?" Solas asks, "The part about transforming into an archdemon and getting your friends killed? Or the part about not having a choice? We can remove the power without giving it to anyone. We could put it into your sword if you wish---"

"I don't trust you. For all we know, you're the one making me ill."

Zevran curses. He looks like he's going to let go and walk away---she is surprised when he doesn't.

"He is not doing this to you," Zevran says, "Theron, stop." 

"No," Mahariel says, "I refuse."

"There is no choice," Zevran says, "I won't let you die."

Mahariel looks at him, confused and furious.

"I said no---"

But he slumps. His eyes roll back in his head. He goes limp. And Zevran doesn't look startled. Fenris does. He struggles to keep him upright. After a moment, he gives up. He stretches him out on his back.

"Shite," Sera says. Her hand is on her bow again. She is not quite drawing an arrow, but she is prepared to. But Mahariel is not turning yet. That is not what this is.

"What did you do?" Fenris asks.

" Zevran, no," Merrill says. 

Zevran ignores them. He looks at Solas. She sees another roll of dust from the tunnel. She sees more debris. She wonders how long it will continue to shift like that. It doesn't seem to be settling, slowing. She is concerned. She is worried.

"Do what you must," Zevran says, "An ordinary person would be out for a few hours but a Grey Warden recovers much more quickly. Whatever you intend to do, do it now."

"Damn it, Zevran," Velanna says. Abelas hangs back with the rest of his soldiers. 

"We need to discuss this first," Lavellan says, "Solas---"

But she doesn't have a chance to intervene, to make Solas stop and wait while they discuss where the power should go.

He casts his spell. He pulls the magic out of Mahariel. He keeps it for himself.

Because, of course he does. What else did she think would happen?

"Damn it, Solas," she says.

"I am not sorry. It is safer with me," he says, "You know I'm right." But he is wrong. It isn't safer with him. He only pretends it is. He is wrong and she wants to scream at him. She wants to shake him. He is stronger than all of them again. He is laced with June's power and Elgar'nan's power and he will be insufferable.

"Now," he says, looking at Fenris, "Who's next?" Her stomach lurches and she knows what else he intends. He's going to take all of their power away. He's going to pull it out of all of them. He will bloat himself on power again and they won't be able to stop him.

"No, Solas, you've had enough," she says. he is like he was before he lost his memory. He is the man who chased her across Thedas. He is the man who wouldn't listen. She wonders if he was only pretending again. Maybe she just didn't want to see it.

She puts herself between him and Fenris. She faces away from the blocked tunnel, but she can still feel it rumbling. She can feel the vibrations behind her. Fenris touches her arm, he tries to pull her back, away from him. But she doesn't let him. She pushes him away. She faces Solas and she is so very angry. 

"If you love him, you'll let me save him too," Solas says, "Please, vhenan, the time for fighting has passed."

His eyes glow and she wonders what he's trying to do. No one turns to stone. No one burns. No one dies. He looks...frustrated when he finally stops. He looks surprised. 

And then she knows. The sleep spell. That was what it was. He thought he could cast it on them, stop them. He thought it was the right thing to do. He thought---he thought---

"You bastard," she says, her fury is cold. And she is not going to look at Fenris. He warned her. He told her this would happen. She didn't want to believe it.

"Ellana," Solas says, and she thinks he's trying to sound authoritative, intimidating, but mostly, he sounds embarrassed. He sounds guilty. She wonders if he was just playing nice the whole time. She wonders if he knew it would come to this.

The tunnel seems to groan. The sound almost makes her look away from him. It is too loud.

"Please don't fight me," Solas says, and he starts to move toward her, "We need to put an end to all of this. Let me carry this burden---"

Fenris draws his sword. He tries to get between them again. She keeps herself in front.. She moves to block him but then he's moving her. He's shifting too fast and she can't anticipate him. He gets her behind him for just a moment and then Solas is moving towards him. She thinks she's going to panic.

"No," she says, "Stop, Solas. Enough. No matter what you believe, you can't carry the weight of the world. It's time to stop."

Zevran is shifting uncertainly, but she hears Sera. She hears Merrill. She hears Velanna. They are ready to fight if they have to. She doubts they will win, but they will try. 

"Let's part ways now," Velanna says, she tries to salvage something of this, "We worked well together. We defeated the titan. Why end it in a fight---"

She feels a barrier snap into place around her---Merrill's---just as Solas' eyes light up again. Whatever it is, whatever he casts, glances off the shield. It makes it flicker. Another blow and it will blink out.

He's not taking Sylaise's magic from her. She won't allow it. 

She hits him with stonefist. She takes him by surprise. She knocks him down. Abelas starts to charge, he and his soldiers. She is going to cast pull of the Abyss to draw them back. She sees Merrill out of the corner of her eye, probably ready with that thorny vine spell---but there is another jolt from the blocked tunnel. The rocks shift, not enough to let anything come through, but enough to tell them something is wrong.

She sees the shimmer of red light. She sees something push through the solid stone. She sees Trouble. 

But it is not really Trouble at all. Suddenly, no one is thinking about fighting. Everything just sort of stops. They look at the spirit. They stare. It should not be red.

"Hello, Fen'Harel," it says, looking at Solas, still sprawled on the ground. It's form shifts. She hears Trouble's voice. But the form changes. It looks less like a strange spirit and more like an elf. More like a woman.

"Do you remember me, harellan?" it asks. 

When she dares look at him, she can tell. He does. He knows this person, this spirit.

"What is this, Solas?" Lavellan asks. But she thinks about the archdemon. She thinks this could be what it looked like before it was corrupted.

And somehow, Trouble has remembered. The titan's corrupted heart did something. It restored that part of it somehow. Impossible, she thinks, impossible but here it is. 

And Abelas is horrified. He recoils, he and the rest of his soldiers. They know this face. She must be right. It is the archdemon---the elvhen god it was before it became an archdemon. There is no sign of the Grey Warden it used to restore itself. Because if the Grey Warden was still apart of it, it wouldn't be so fixed on Solas. It wouldn't sneer like that. It wouldn't call him, harellan.

"Yes, I remember," Solas says. His voice is steady. It is calm. 

"Care to fill us in or you just want to sit there and stare at it?" Sera asks.

"It's another old god," Lavellan says. She ventures a guess, the only one that makes sense---the third blight was won in Hunter Fell, where they met Trouble, "I think this is Toth." 

And Trouble smiles. She laughs. She looks more than a little mad.

"Yes. I remember that name. I am Toth and I am more," she says, and she turns. When Lavellan meets her gaze, she is flooded with dread, "I am Sylaise. And you have something of mine." 

She starts to move.


	98. She Is Only Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylaise is only a shadow of what she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have several endings planned. One for solas/lavellan and another for fenris/lavellan. If I can keep my motivation up, there may be an "everything goes wrong" ending. And maybe another.

Another barrier settles around her, but it isn't one of Merrill's this time. It is one of Solas'. Sylaise touches it and she can't push through. She looks at him when he stands. She scowls.

"How clever of you," she says.

But her eyes narrow. If she had a body, her breath would have come out in a hiss. She is angry. So very angry.

She sees the thread of June's magic in Solas, Lavellan realizes. 

"Hypocrite," Sylaise says, "All this time, your betrayal was to further your own selfish designs. It was never about Mother."

Solas does not show any emotion. He is cold. Distant. 

"It was always about Mythal," he says, "But she is gone. Truly gone. As should you be."

Sylaise laughs but it is mirthless, it is just as cold as Solas. Lavellan sees nothing of Trouble. She doesn't see anything of the odd little spirit and she is surprised at how sad that makes her. 

It was strange and troublesome, but it was also oddly sweet. It was a friend. Another one lost. Lavellan understands now. She is hit by it all at once. The more they fight, the more they war, the more they lose. Someone has to stop. Someone has to finally say enough is enough. She has followed Mahariel's vengeance and Sera's. She has sought her own. And it was a mistake. She knows now. 

If Solas was going to destroy himself, she should have let him. She should have used her escape to find her own happiness. She should have never looked back. And it hurts. All of this hurts.

"I'm not going anywhere, harellan," Sylaise says, "I have seen what you did to the world in my absence. You have done far more damage than any of us ever did. Power doesn't suit you."

"You are foolish," she says.

"You are weak," she says.

She looks at Lavellan. She feels the shift of her focus. She feels the heat of her gaze, the intensity. She is going to try to take the power from her or she is going to try to posses her. Lavellan can't be sure which, but she will be disappointed. She is not giving anything up.

"You're both bloody terrible," Sera says, "World doesn't belong to you. How about you fuck off and leave it alone?"

"Sera, please," Solas says, "Don't---"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence, Eggy, we're not friends," she says.

But he doesn't seem to hear her. He fixes his gaze on Sylaise.

Sylaise doesn't spare him another glance. She lashes out. She strike the barrier surrounding Lavellan. Her hands shimmer, they spark with unholy light, with strange fire.

Lavellan feels the heat of the attack for just a moment. The barrier breaks. Sylaise reaches through. She starts to push her hand through Lavellan's chest---she feels the chill of it. And she hears Solas screaming.

But she is not afraid.

She can not be coerced. She can not be controlled. Merrill has already made certain of that. 

Sylaise makes a frustrated sound. She looks confused. And so does Solas---as if he's forgotten already. Well, Lavellan doesn't care.

She is tired of their games, their petty squabbles for power. She is tired of all of it.

And Sylaise is only a spirit. They have fought and defeated more than a few.

She casts Pull of the Abyss. She casts veilstrike. She casts immolate.

Sylaise shrieks at first, she falls, but immolate is a mistake. It does nothing to her. She gathers her strength. She stands. She tries for another grab.

Solas hits her with ice. And Fenris uses that strange pulse of silver magic. It makes Sylaise stagger. It stuns her. He is going to hit her with it again, but then, Sylaise sees Mahariel. 

He is still unconscious. He is stretched out with his head resting in Zevran's lap.

She makes a terrible sound. There is a flicker of hope in her eyes. She lunges for him. Lavellan can't even begin to guess what she thinks she'll do.

But Sylaise is too late anyway. Solas traps her in ice. Lavellan hits her with veilstrike again. 

But it is Cole who finally ends it. He comes to her while she is struggling to break free. He touches her. He pulls her through him and she disappears. When he has finished, there is nothing left.

The quiet settles over them. Cole looks fine. He doesn't seem any different, not physically. But there is a hardness to his stare. There is regret.

Solas breaks the silence first. 

"What did you do?" he asks, but he sounds like he already knows.

"She didn't want to go," Cole says, "I shouldn't have made the choice for her." His tone is strange. There is a note of warning. He looks at Solas for a long time. 

"The Beyond," Solas says. He looks like he doesn't know what to say or how to feel. He is a mixture of awe and horror. 

"She can't hurt anyone else," Cole says. He is still staring at Solas. Lavellan is not the only one who has had enough, it seems he has as well. He will stand between them and Solas if he has to. And if it comes to that, she thinks he'll be the one to survive it. Not Solas. Not anyone else.

"I'm sorry, Cole," Lavellan says, because he is not alright. He isn't broken, but he is angry with himself, with them, with Sylaise. She thinks he wants to disappear.

"It isn't your fault," he says.

She doesn't want to look at Solas but she can feel him watching her. She doesn't want to talk. She doesn't want to fight him, and if he tries to take Fenris' magic or hers, she will have to. If he comes for her, she will.

"Ellana," Solas tries.

"Don't," she says, "We are done here."

Mahariel stirs. He looks up at Zevran, confused. He reaches up, to touch his face. He pauses. His expression goes curiously dark.

He pushes himself up and away. 

And Zevran does not look surprised. If anything, he is resigned to it. He stands, brushes the grit from his legs. 

"I am not sorry," Zevran says, "You are alive."

"It wasn't your choice to make."

"No, this time, it was," he says, "Hate me if you must, but it makes no difference. I would make the same choice again."

Mahariel shuts his eyes. He breathes. He seems to be struggling to get himself under control.

"I don't hate you," he says at last. It is all he'll say. He stands. He rolls his shoulder and she can tell he has pulled something. He winces. The air rushes out of him and he looks like he wants to sit back down. He is still too pale.

And Solas is not content to let things be. He tries to approach her. He thinks she'll let him after what he tried to do. He takes one step and she is retreating.

"Don't," she says. Abelas, at least, is wiser. He keeps his distance. He and the surviving sentinels. They withdraw to the far end of the tunnel. They wait.

Solas doesn't seem to notice.

"We haven't finished," Solas says, "We must resolve this." She hears the plea, his desperation. 

"Do you want to kill me?" she asks.

"No, of course not," he says, he snaps---horrified again.

"Then stop," she says, "I have had enough."

"You know me better than you pretend," she says, "After everything that's happened, I haven't lost myself to this magic. I'm not going to and neither will Fenris. Stop pushing. Stop fighting us, Solas." She knows it isn't the end of the argument. It couldn't be this simple. But she doesn't have the energy to deal with another fight. 

She gathers her things. She ignores the silence, the stares of her companions. She wants to get away before he tries to take their powers again. She wants to put as much distance between them as she can. She wants to go home, wherever that is, wherever it could be.

"Go back to your kingdom," she tells him when he tries one last time to speak to her, "Rebuild your libraries and your cities and whatever else you think is more important than the living, breathing people of my world. We will not speak on this again."

It hurts to say it. She doesn't want to. She wants to scream at him. She wants to shake him. She wants to make him see why he was wrong. But she can't. She can't even look at him. She thinks he will always hurt her. And she is done giving him the chance.

But she sees his face for just a second. She is too weak not to. She sees that familiar flicker of hurt. She sees pain---and it is so like her own, she can't breathe. None of this is how it's supposed to be.

"Ellana," he tries.

"No more, Solas," she says, "My people are dead. My world is dead, and it is your fault. I'm done sharing the blame. You did this and you won't take anything else from me. Do you understand?"

"I---yes. I am sorry. I never wanted this. I never meant for this---" He trails off. She almost believes him.

"We are going," she tells the others, "Now." Her voice is familiar again. It is hard and sharp and unyielding. She pretends Solas is just another noble man, demanding her resources, her loyalty in exchange for something worthless. She pretends he is no one. She tries. She tries harder than she ever has.

But she wants to cry. She thinks she will if they don't move quickly.

Mahariel tries to interject and so does Sera. Solas is here now. They can stop him if they try. And they swear he will come for them again. She is not stupid. She knows they are probably right, but she is done. This is over. She doesn't care about anything else but that. Solas watches in silence. His face is not the perfect mask it once was. He is angry. He is worried. He is still so hurt. 

But so is she. So are they all. 

"I said I've had enough," she says, she shouts it and she is surprised when they go quiet, "If you want to fight and kill yourselves, go right ahead, but do it without me." She is done. She is. 

It is a long way back to the surface.

 

She doesn't lower her guard even after they see sky. She can't relax. She doesn't trust that Solas won't follow and try to take the last of the evanuris' power. 

Mahariel is curiously quiet. If she wasn't so angry, she would be worried. But after a few days he stops avoiding Zevran. She sees him smile. She sees him touch his hand. She sees him start to soften.

Velanna is relieved. She looks about ten years younger.

And Merrill is happy again. She hums to herself. She teases Sera. She rambles on about anything and everything. Sera is always dragging her away. Whenever they stop to make camp, whenever they have a moment.

Cole comes and goes as he will. He is barely here, and when he is, he is so very distant. When they reach Hunter Fell, he only stays for a few hours and then he is gone again. She can't find him. He won't come to her. She can't pretend it doesn't hurt, but he has given too much of himself so other people could be happy. He is never selfish. He never puts himself first. It is time he did. It is time he tries.

Solas visits her in the Fade the first night.

She is not pleased to see him.

He wants peace. He wants to find a way to live and work alongside her people. Now he does. 

"We have peace," she says, "Don't try to come for me. Don't attack my people. Stay away."

"This isn't peace," he says. 

"It's the best we can hope for," she says. 

"And what of you?" he asks, "Will your people keep to their lands or will they attack again?"

"I can't speak for Sera or Mahariel," she says. And she wouldn't try. If she knows them half as well as she thinks, they will make trouble for him. But she can't afford to worry. Let their quarrel with Solas stay between them. Let it be separate from her and the other survivors.

"I will speak with the survivors," she says, "I think most of them will agree to make peace if you stay away from them. They don't need to be reminded who is responsible for the deaths of their loved ones."

And Dorian would be ashamed of her right now. Cassandra would be screaming for blood. She has let them down. Walking away like this, accepting peace, it feels like a defeat.

But they have no choice. They can not have vengeance if it means the world will suffer. And she knows now, the more they fight, the worse it will be. They were lucky to survive the titan and Sylaise. They may not be again.

And she can't deny it. She doesn't want Solas to die. Even after everything he's done, the part of her that still loves him, that will always love him, wants him to survive. She needs him to.

"Ellana," he says. It is that voice, that tone---he knows how hard it is for her to resist. He knows it isn't fair to use it against her but he doesn't care. He tries it anyway. 

"No, Solas, leave it. There is too much hurt between us," she says. Please, she thinks. Just let the fighting be over. Let this be done, she thinks.

"Do you have control of your magic?" he asks.

The shift in topics is dizzying.

"I'm fine," she says.

He looks like he wants to reach for her, but he stops. He lowers his hand. He steps back. Gods but she can't bear the sight of his face. Even now, she doesn't want to hurt him. She wants to tell him everything is fine, everything will be fine. But she would be lying to herself, to him. Everything is not fine. She doubts it will be. 

"If you should need anything," he says, "You have only to ask. I will not try to take Sylaise's magic from you." And he sounds as broken as she feels.

"My magic, Solas," she says, "It is mine now."

She wants to say thank you but she can't. He doesn't get thanks for doing what he should have agreed to do in the first place. 

"Don't come to me again unless I invite you," she says.

She tells him goodbye. She didn't think her heart can break again, but it does. She feels it. When he fades away, when he disappears, she thinks he takes a part of her with him.

 

She stays in Hunter Fell for a few days, but she doesn't feel safe. She is restless. She wants to go. Finally, when she can take it no more, she puts together a few supplies. She is only just starting to put things into a bag when Fenris catches her.

"Where are you going?" he asks. She is too surprised to answer at first. She wasn't expecting him yet. She was too caught up in her own restlessness to think.

"I don't know. Away," she says.

She doesn't really know why she didn't say anything to him first. She should have. She should have warned him. She doesn't want to leave him behind.

"Were you going to tell me?" he asks.

"I was going to ask you to come along," she says, "But that would be selfish. You'd come even if you didn't want to."

"And that's my choice," he says, he snaps.

"Do you want to come with me?" she asks, but she is afraid to hear the answer. She doesn't want him to say no, but what if he says yes? Without the threat of Solas hanging over her head, she doesn't know what to think. 

"Give me a moment," he says, but he doesn't sound appeased. He doesn't sound convinced. He is still reeling from the unpleasant surprise. He is still angry. She can't blame him.

"You don't have to. I'll be fine," she says, but it is the wrong thing to say. He steps back. She sees more hurt in his eyes. She sees more anger.

"You don't want me to come with you," he says. But he is wrong. She does. 

"Fenris," she says. He turns away. She thinks he's going to leave, she knows he wants to, but he stops at the door. She is surprised. She stares at his back, his shoulders, as he struggles to slow his breath.

"You're still thinking about him. Even after all this, even now," he says.

"Don't," she says, "I'm too angry for this discussion." And hurt. She doesn't know when it will stop, if it ever will, but she is angry with herself for it. She doesn't want Fenris to be angry with her too.

She is so very good at saying the wrong thing.

"I chose you," she says, "That's all that matters." 

"Please," she says, "Come with me. The longer I stay here, the crazier I feel."

His shoulders relax, but when he turns to look at her, his expression is just as severe as it was.

"Are you sure you want my company?" he asks, but his tone is accusing. 

She sighs. She deserves this. She has made another mess. She has been far too impulsive and he is hurt because of it.

She gets a hand behind his neck and she strains to kiss him. She is glad when he leans into it, when he doesn't pull away. He shuts his eyes. He gets her flush against him. She kisses him until they are both breathless and straining and she almost wants to forget about leaving. Hunter Fell is a nice enough village with nice enough people.

His fingers catch in her hair, tilting her head back. But nice enough people in a nice enough town isn't reason enough to stay. She wants to go. She needs to.

"Yes, I want your company," she says, "Come with me, Fenris. Run away with me. Please. Take me away from all of this."

So she can stop thinking about Trouble and Solas. So she can stop looking over her shoulder. So she can regain a bit of peace. She thinks she has a chance to find it now. But she won't do it here.

"Forgive me?" she asks, "I'm so very bad at this."

He sighs.

"You make me crazy," he says, and she knows she does.

He kisses her again. He slides his palms down her back. He smooths them over the curve of her ass. He makes her shiver.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"Anywhere," she says, "I have no idea."

She smiles. She laughs.


	99. Alternate Ending: Calm My Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the bad ending.  
> Cole doesn't stop Sylaise. Solas does.
> 
> Warning for Character Death

After Solas destroys Sylaise, he pulls the magic out of Fenris. There is nothing she can do. Fenris is not terribly upset, but he is weak. He collapses. He is only angry to see it go into Solas. Velanna is angry though. And so is Sera.

"Someday, you will understand," Solas says. He look different somehow. He looks darker. Colder. Ghilan'nain's power was too much. 

And he turns to her.

She throws up a shield but it is too late. He grabs her arm. He casts his spell.

She screams because it is agony. She screams again and again. He won't stop. And when it is over, she feels smaller. She feels insignificant. Tiny. She starts to fall because she is too weak to hold herself up.

But he catches her. He picks her up like she is nothing more than a child.

"Don't," she says.

He smiles.

"You are safe now," he says, "I have you."

She tries to push him away, to get her feet on the ground again, but he holds on. 

"Let me go," she says. Her voice rises, she can't hide her fear, the panic. He doesn't listen. She doesn't even know if he can hear her. He nods to Abelas.

"I believe we have what we came for," he says, "Out of respect for Ellana, I will not continue our quarrel. Should you follow us, that will change."

"Put her down, Dread Wolf," Fenris says. He tries to stand, but he is still too weak. 

Sera draws her bow. She aims an arrow at Solas' heart.

"I think you heard us," Sera says, "She's not going with you."

"Please," Merrill says, "If you care for her, you won't do this. She doesn't want to go with you."

"I am sorry," Solas says. But it is a lie.

Lavellan is too weak to use the anchor on him. She can feel it but she can't pull, she can't cast. He has drained her magic again. He hasn't just stolen Sylaise's power.

"I don't want to go with you, Solas, listen to me for once," she says.

He looks pained but he doesn't put her down. He doesn't let go.

"I am sorry, vhenan," he says, "But I can't trust you. When left to your own devices, you put yourself in danger. You risk your life needlessly. I can not allow it again."

"It isn't your choice, arse," Sera says.

She fires. Solas's eyes glow. The arrow shatters. 

Lavellan shrieks, expecting the worst, but he doesn't kill Sera. He glares at her, his hands too tight, almost painful.

"Do not try that again," he says. He starts to walk. His soldiers fall in behind him.

"No," Fenris says, "You can't take her---" But there is nothing any of them can do. She struggles as much as she can. She watches Fenris until the tunnel curves away. She doesn't want to leave him. She doesn't want to go.

 

She doesn't mean to sleep but she does. She is too weak to stay awake. And when she returns to consciousness, she sees the chains, the warded cuffs. Solas won't have to keep draining her now.

She can't believe he would do this. She can't stand to look at him.

She doesn't talk. He tries to coax her, but she turns away. She doesn't want him to see her cry.

She doesn't recognize this tunnel. This is not the path they took. He has taken them another route. He closes it behind them, so her people won't be able to follow. She doesn't think she will see them again. He has thought this out too well. She should have known.

Solas tries to touch her face when he tells her about the wonderful new city he's going to build, when he tells her about the house he's working on, just for her. She wrenches away. He doesn't even notice. He simply moves closer, his gaze distant, far away. His smile so small and strange.

She hates him now. 

More than she ever has.

 

He takes her to Skyhold first. He wards the doors and windows. He leaves her with Abelas. 

He leaves and she is so glad for it.

But Abelas is terrible company. She can't look at his face. She can't bear the look of regret she sees. Now he knows Solas is wrong. Now he cares.

He is a fool.

"He will soften in time," Abelas says, but he sounds unsure.

"I don't care," she says.

"I hate him," she says.

"I hate you," she says and she feels like a child.

She locks herself in the room he has given her. She eats only what she has to. She takes no pleasure in it. They will bring her no wine. She finds none in the cellar the one and only time she ventures out. 

She thinks about everything she has lost.She thinks about Fenris. She should be with him now, not Abelas, because Fenris would never do this to her. He would never lie to her, steal from her, lock her away from the world. Fenris is not a monster. He is real. He loves her. He isn't like Solas.

None of this is right.

When Solas returns, weeks later, he doesn't stay. He is only here to fetch her. Like a dog. A thing. He does not take her to his new Arlathan. They pass through the eluvians. He takes her to his damned floating island again. And it is different. 

It is bigger. 

The pretty house he first showed her is gone. The new structure that replaced it is hideous. It is jagged edges and dark stone. It is elvhen but it is twisted. When she touches the eluvian, she knows what else has changed. She can't activate it.

He had promised this was their sanctuary. He had promised she could come and go as she pleased. But not anymore. She can only leave if he allows it. Of course. Of course.

"You will be safest here," he says. He tries to kiss her cheek. She pulls away. She pushes him. She can't stand the feel of the metal cuffs on her wrists. He has removed the chain linking them, but the wards remain. 

She has no magic. She can't cast. She hates him.

_It is only for a little while, he had said, only until you understand._ But she will never understand. How could she? 

He isn't himself. He is a stranger. A monster.

He gives her pretty things. He paints for her. He wards the surfaces so she can't destroy them. He brings history books and novels, but nothing about magic. He doesn't bring spell books. He doesn't leave anything she could use to make potions or poisons. He has gutted the flower gardens. He is too careful with her. He is hopeful. He still loves her. She is disgusted.

But he doesn't expect her to take him back. He doesn't ask her to sleep with him. He doesn't push her to. He contents himself with trying to steal a kiss now and then. He stops when she snarls at him, but she shouldn't have to.

He should stop trying. He should go. Because she will never understand. As long as she is a prisoner, she will hate him.

 

She loses track of time. There is no one to talk to but him and the spirits in the Fade and sometimes Abelas. After a while, it is hard to hold on to her anger. She feels like she's losing her mind. maybe she is.

She is isolated. Trapped.

He is kind. He is sweet. And it makes her head hurt. It is confusing. So very confusing. He won't remove the cuffs. He won't restore her magic. And she thinks she is far too numb about it. She should be raging. She should be trying to tear his throat out.

She doesn't though.

She sits across from him, curled up in a chair, while he tells her stories of the Fade, while he sketches with charcoal. He smudges the lines and she can't remember when she last saw him this pleased.

He makes a happy sound. He smiles.

"Would you like to see it?" he asks.

She usually says no and stares at nothing. But she is too tired to say no. She doesn't want to be here. She can't leave. How can he justify it?

He doesn't wait for her answer. He turns the page toward her. He has drawn her face. He has made her look far happier than she really is. But the lines are beautiful. He draws her like she is his heart. He draws her like she is everything.

She feels nothing but sadness. There is no joy. She buries her face in her palms and she cries. She cries as if her heart is breaking. 

She hears him shift. She sees his shadow fall across her. She feels his hands on her arms, her wrists---tugging, coaxing, and he is pleading with her to look at him. She doesn't want to. 

She will never leave this place.

She is trapped.

"It is alright now," he says, "I have you."

He gets her hands away from her face and he kisses her cheek. He pulls her into his arms, whispers soothing things against her hair. And she lets him. She doesn't know why but she does.

 

When she dreams, she finds too many spirits. Spirits of rage and sorrow. Spirits of apathy and spirits of despair. She finds no spirits of compassion. 

But she finds Cole. 

And he has changed. He is cloaked in black. He is darker. He is colder. He is different. 

"Help me," she says. She pleads.

He holds her for a moment. She knows he has heard her. He is weighing his options. But she doubts there is much he can do. Solas has made her prison too well. She can't escape. No one can reach her.

"Help me," she repeats. She says it over and over again. She is crying because she has nothing left. There is no hope but him.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

She doesn't care what he means to do. Anything is better than this. Anything.

"Yes," she says," Yes." She says it over and over again and she holds onto Cole like he is her only life line. Like she is drowning.

"I'm sorry I can't save you," Cole says.

"It isn't your fault," she says. It is hers. She knows now. All of it. It has always been.

He touches her face. 

She sees only light, blinding, brilliant. It is beautiful and it is pain. And then it is gone. Everything is gone. 

 

When she wakes, she is happy. She can't remember why she was angry with Solas. She only knows that she was. Her head is sore. Strange. And Solas is asleep on the couch in the living room. At least, she thinks that's what it is. Why would he be though? It is odd.

She doesn't remember this place either. She thinks she probably should. She must not be awake, she realizes. This is the Fade. It must be. She is asleep in her own bed, in Skyhold. 

But she wonders at the strange cuffs around her wrists. If this was the waking world, she would say they are warded. She can't remove them. She doesn't know what they do. But she sees the shimmer of magic, the unfamiliar symbols.

Solas stirs when she tries to cover him with a blanket. He jolts. He looks up at her as if he's surprised. 

"Ellana?" he asks, sounding uncertain.

He starts to sit up, but she stops him.

She kisses his nose. She smiles. His eyes go wide. He looks up at her as if she's a phantom, as if she's going to disappear. He is being silly, she thinks. This is the Fade but she only just got here. She isn't going to leave yet.

"Hello, vhenan," she says, "What's wrong?"

"I---vhenan? Nothing's wrong," he says, "You are different this morning."

What an odd thing to say, she thinks. She kisses him to stop him from talking. He curls a hand around the back of her head. He twists his fingers in her hair. He makes a delicious sound.

She doesn't want to pull away but she does still have to breathe. And so does he. She breaks for breath and he is pulling her down, into his lap. He is soft but she feels him start to harden beneath her.

"Where are we, love?" she asks, "I don't recognize this memory."

His expression shifts from pleasure to confusion.

"What?' he asks as if he hasn't heard her.

"This place," she says, "I don't recognize it. I assumed it was one of yours."

"You don't recognize it?" he asks. There is something wrong with his voice, his tone. If she didn't know better, she'd say he is horrified. It doesn't make her feel good. It makes her worry because why should he be horrified? Why should she recognize this place? She has never seen it before. 

"No, should I?" she asks. She tries to laugh it off, to smile, to kiss him again, but he pulls back. 

"Ellana," he says, "This is not the Fade." It takes a moment to understand what he means.

"Of course it is, don't be ridiculous," she says.

"No," he says, "This is our home. It has been for some time now." He looks into her eyes. He shifts. His grip is suddenly too tight. 

And his face.

He is afraid. Something is wrong.

"Don't look at me like that," she says. She tries to pull away but she can't. He is staring. He is searching for something. He is breathing too hard and she doesn't like the sound.

"Don't toy with me," he says, "Please, Ellana. I can't bear it."

"Solas, you're scaring me," she says, "Let go."

She thinks he is going to yell at her, but he stops himself. He lets go and she scrambles to her feet. She puts distance between them. This can not be real. It must be the Fade. She can't remember---why can't she remember?

"Ellana," he says.

"Wake me up, Solas, this isn't funny."

"You are awake. You are home," he insists. His face falls, "What have you done to yourself?" He reaches for her. When she retreats, he follows. He gets her against the wall. He tilts her head back and searches her eyes. She can feel the touch of his magic. 

And his eyes are glowing.

"What have you done?" he asks.

"Nothing. What are you doing?" she asks, "Stop." She is afraid now. And she is never afraid of Solas. Why is he acting like this? It must be the Fade. This can't really be Solas. It must be a demon, wearing his face.

She can't break away. When did he get so strong?

"What have you done?" he asks, he demands.

He finally lets go because he is shaking too much. She thinks she should run. There is something wrong with him. But she is struck by the sight. He is crying now. He looks heart broken.

She hasn't done anything. She is the same as she has always been.

"Are you really Solas?" she asks as if a demon would tell the truth.

"You know I am," he says, "Vhenan, why? You didn't have to---" His voice breaks.

"I am going to find Cole," he says, "We'll reverse the damage." But she doesn't like the way he says Cole. She doesn't like the look in his eye. Cole would never hurt her. He is wonderful. He is kind. He is so very innocent. He would only try to help. Solas kisses her face, her mouth, and he almost chokes on it, on her. She is afraid. This can't be Solas.

It can't be.

She needs to wake up now. She has to. Gods, why can't she wake up?

But she knows he is right. She is awake. This isn't the Fade. 

But worse, something is wrong with _her_. Her memory is gone. 

 

Solas is gone for weeks. Abelas comes to stay with her. He won't let her leave. She doesn't believe him when he tells her the Inquisition is gone. She doesn't believe him when he tells her what Solas did to the world.

Dorian isn't dead. Cassandra isn't dead. None of it is real.

But if Solas is right, if she made herself forget, she knows why she would. She doesn't want to live in this world. It is terrible. 

Abelas tries to be kind but she can tell he is at a loss. He speaks to her like she is a delicate thing, like she is fragile. He asks if there's anything she wants, if there is something she needs.

"I want to go home," she says.

Where ever that is now. If she even has a home to go to. She is starting to doubt it.

"I'm sorry," Abelas says. But it means nothing.

 

Solas is different when he returns. He is colder. He is darker or maybe brighter. She isn't sure which. He has more power rumbling under the surface of his skin. It is strange. He is wrong.

He kisses her. 

His eyes are red when they part. His eyes are wet.

"I had no choice," he says, his voice breaks, it makes her shiver.

"What did you do?" she asks, but she doesn't want him to answer. 

"I can't fix you," he says, "I can't restore what Cole took. He destroyed it. Your memories are gone."

"What did you do?" she repeats, but it is barely a whisper.

"I am sorry," he says. Over and over again. _I am sorry._ He has hurt someone, killed someone. It is the only explanation that makes sense. He has done something to Cole, she thinks.

No.

He couldn't have.

He wouldn't.

"Where is Cole?" she asks. 

"He will never hurt you again," he says, "I tried to save him, but I could not. Falon'Din had settled too deep inside of him. I am sorry. There was nothing I could do. He is gone."

_He is gone._

She screams. She screams at him. She hits him. She nearly chokes because she can't believe this could happen. Cole is not gone. Solas would never harm a spirit of compassion. Not Cole. Never Cole.

Everyone is dead except for Solas. He is all she has left. And he is the reason for it.

She thinks she would like to throw herself over the edge of his horrible floating island. She thinks she would like to die.

 

"Ellana," he says. He wakes her with a kiss. 

She is confused but she doesn't know why. There is just a feeling of wrongness. Of strangeness. Something isn't as it should be, but she doesn't know what it is.

He is beautiful but she can't remember his name. He knows hers though. He knows her.

"Good morning," she says. She smiles. There is something about him that makes her happy. 

She starts to sit, to pull him down, but he is wearing too much armor. He is sharp edges. He is...there is blood. She sees it on the shimmering silverite, on the white silk. She should know his name. She thinks she must for him to look at her like this.

"It is a good morning now that you are awake," he says, "Did you miss me?"

She doesn't know. She can't remember.

"I suppose I must have," she says, still smiling, "But you're here now."

She thinks something is wrong but she doesn't mind. She doesn't want to think about it. She is happy. That is enough. 

He strips out of his gauntlets. He unbuckles his breastplate, his greaves. He strips down to soft leggings. He peels the sweat stained shirt off his body.

"Ellana," he says. He kisses her again. He crawls into bed beside her. He runs his fingers down the length of her throat. 

Shouldn't she be afraid? A thought nags at her, it insists. She doesn't know this man. She can't remember him. She can't remember much of anything. There has always only ever been this room and this bed, his smile. 

Why?

Where is she?

Who is he?

"Ellana?" he asks. His smile fades. He looks at her and she knows he is concerned. 

"I'm sorry," she says.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She is embarrassed. If she knows him, this will hurt him. To be forgotten is such an unusual thing. She doesn't want to tell him. She wants to let him continue. She wants him to touch her. 

But the look on his face makes her heart wrench. 

"I can't remember your name," she says, "I seem to have forgotten...who you are. I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."

His breath rushes out. He slumps.

"Oh," he says, and he does look hurt. He doesn't look surprised though. And that is even stranger. He forces himself to smile. He erases the hurt from his face. He kisses her again.

"There is no need to apologize, vhenan," he says, "You have done nothing wrong. We tried to restore your memory again. It seems you have lost more of it. This is my fault. I am sorry."

Oh, she thinks. 

"It is no matter," he continues, "We will make new memories."

"What's your name?" she asks. She shivers when his fingers find a sensitive spot, when his touch trails lower. He slips under her night shirt. He covers her, stretches over her, and she thinks she has never felt so good before.

He kisses her cheek.

"If introductions are to be made," he says, "My name is Falon'Din."

He smiles.

He does.


	100. Alternate Ending: The Slow Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes time.
> 
> The Solas/Lavellan ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ran away with itself. I apologize for the length.

_200 years after the Fall_

Emissaries from Arlathan come. Diplomats. They bring gifts of wine and books. She is surprised the council agrees to see them. She is surprised she isn't immediately filled with dread.

It has been two hundred years. Much has changed. Some wounds have healed. She and Fenris have parted ways again. It is always that way, it seems. Together and then not. Long stretches of peace and then storms. He is with someone else now. She wishes them both the best.

And the men and women from Arlathan are not what she remembers. They are still so very proud, but they don't look down their noses the way they once did. She doesn't know what to think.

And then she recognizes Abelas.

He bows. He...smiles.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," he says.

She shakes her head.

"You have the council to thank," she says, "I am just one voice among many."

"All the same," he says, "I thank you."

It is strange just being here with him, seeing him again. They did not part on good terms. She didn't think she would see him again.

He wants to establish some kind of trade agreement. His People want to be...friends. He tells her they have been remiss in their duties for far too long. They have not been "good neighbors."

Well.

She doesn't know what to say.

He tells her about Arlathan---it seems there is knowledge they wish to share. The Vir Dirthara is complete. He understands if she is reluctant to come, but there is an invitation meant for her, specifically.

"Why?" she asks. Because how can she be anything other than suspicious. It has been years since she last saw Solas. From time to time, she has felt his presence in the Fade, watching, passing by. But they haven't met, haven't spoken, haven't tried. 

There is too much hurt. Even still, she thinks.

But the Vir Dirthara is tempting. It is far too interesting to ignore.

His People bring an eluvian, another gift of friendship. Anyone who wishes to visit Arlathan is welcome as long as they come in peace, he says. She agrees to consider it. And the rest of the council seems pleased with the eluvian. They don't seem terribly worried. Fenris is suspicious though. And Mahariel and Sera are not impressed. They argue to send it back and they are outvoted.

Velanna tells them in no uncertain terms what will happen should a mysterious accident befall the eluvian. 

Lavellan does not go to Arlathan. Not with the first group or the second or the third. She waits. She thinks it over. She wonders if she's being overly cautious. Solas has left her alone since the last time they spoke. In two hundred years he has not tried to steal her magic. He hasn't tried to take her prisoner. He hasn't attacked her People.

He has stayed away. He has respected her wishes.

Maybe there is hope. 

 

_220 years after the Fall_

Against her better judgment, she gives in. Curiosity is a troublesome thing to resist, and Cole is even worse. He pushes. He needles. He begs. And too many of her people have visited the elvhen city and come back safe to tell of it. They've come back excited and so full of praise. The Vir Dirthara is breathtaking. It is wonderful.

"Try," Cole says, "It will make you happy." She doubts that. She doubts it very much.

But she does want to see the books in Solas' library. She wants to see what two hundred years could accomplish. She wants to see what else was worth the lives of her people---and maybe that thought is unfair at this point. There was death on both sides. There were wrongs. She can't hold all of it over him forever. But she is still too angry. Cole tries to convince her it doesn't matter. He tells her it isn't healthy to hold on to anger.

Well then. 

Since it's so easy.

"Talk to him," Cole says, "It's safe now. He's better." Impossible. No.

She tells Cole what he can do with his opinion. He retreats. She doesn't know where he goes. For the first few weeks, she doesn't care.

But she thinks about what he told her. It wears her down. Maybe her anger is too heavy a burden. Maybe. Against her better judgment, she passes through the eluvian.

The Vir Dirthara is not what she expected. It is bigger. It is grander. It is not filled only with Elvhen tomes. She finds Varric's journals. She find his books. She finds more.

Solas has included books written by humans and dwarves and qunari and modern elves. He has included books about her people. The truth and not racist propaganda. And he has covered the walls with his paintings. So many. She can not move without seeing something new.

Or something old. Or someone. 

He has painted the faces of the dead again, the people they lost, hers. Clan Lavellan and the Inquisition. Grey Wardens. More. So many more. She is shocked when she sees Dorian's face, and she is even more surprised she isn't flooded with rage or guilt. 

She sees him and she is sad. But she can bear it.

She misses him.

She thinks she always will.

She wanders the halls until she is hopelessly lost. The corridors lose some of their brightness. Some of the rooms are unfinished but she is in no real hurry to rush back. It is quiet and she has worked herself away from the crowds. 

It is nice.

But when she turns the last corner, it loses some of its charm. She comes face to face with another painting, another face she knows all to well. It is her own. She sees the familiar lines of vallaslin---she remembers. It is his work and she is surprised he would dare to paint this scene. 

This is Crestwood. This is the night he broke her heart for the first time, just before he said the words, before he lied with the truth. She sees her smile, her eyes---she looks so peaceful, so hopeful. She had expected the night to go much differently than it did.

She hears footsteps but she doesn't turn. She stares at the painting and tries to calm her stomach. It is strange the pain could still be so fresh, so sharp. His betrayal shouldn't hurt any more. She has moved on.

"Excuse me, this room is not open to the public," a voice says.

She doesn't want to turn because she knows that voice. Of course. He would be the one to catch her here. Who else would it be?

"Excuse me," he says again.

But he stops when she looks at him. He stops and he stares and she is struck with a wave of terror so strong she can't move.

"Oh," he says, and he steps back, "I didn't realize. I'm sorry. I---"

She thinks he looks even more terrified than she is. She thinks he is going to retreat. He is going to run. She wishes he would. She wishes _she_ would.

"Hello, Solas," she says at last. Her breath hitches.

He hasn't changed. His eyes are still so perfectly blue, still paler than they should be, but lovely. His skin is the same. His nose. His mouth. He hasn't aged. Of course he hasn't. And neither has she.

Only his sweater is different, but it is still paint spattered. It is still soft looking and worn. He stares at her like he is terrified, but what does he have to fear? He still carries Elgar'nan's and June's magic under his skin. He is still so very bright.

But when he looks at her, something has chanced. She thinks it might actually see her this time. But that is impossible.

Maybe it won't hurt to talk to him. Maybe Cole was right.

Maybe.

Why does she want to talk to him?

"I didn't think you'd come," he says.

"I was curious," she says. She was stupid. Foolish. Tempted by books and nostalgia for the short time in their lives they had something real. She is still such a silly woman.

It has been two hundred years. How can he still reduce her to this?

"I---feel free to look around as you wish," he says, "I won't trouble you---" He turns away. He is so quick, she is a little surprised. She calls out to him without thinking, without weighing the consequences.

"Don't go," she says, "I've gotten turned around. I apologize."

She should go. She should get away.

But it has been so long. 

He breathes. He tilts his head. He listens, and he is so tense she thinks he's going to break if he moves too suddenly again.

"If you'd like, I could show you the way back," he says, "Or I could call ask someone else. If you'd rather. It's just to the left at the end of the hall." The note of panic in his voice is stronger. It is louder. He doesn't want her here, she thinks.

"Solas?" she asks.

"I wasn't expecting---I'm sorry. This is----I am unprepared," he says.

"We could talk," she says. She hears her voice and she doesn't know what she's doing.

He recoils. Horrified by the suggestion. Just to talk with her. Horrified. Repulsed? She doesn't understand.

"No," he says, "I can't." It comes out much too forceful. He backs up. As if he's the wronged party, as if she's the villain. Of course. He hasn't really changed. He's just changed his reaction to her. What was Abelas thinking? He was wrong. She isn't welcome here. The invitation was a mistake.

She shouldn't have come. She knows now. He won't look at her. He lets the silence stretch on too long because she has intruded.

"I'll find my own way," she says, "I apologize. I didn't mean to go where I wasn't allowed." Where she wasn't wanted.

She tries to slip past him. She tries to avoid touching him, but he catches her hand. He makes a strange sound. Wild. Uncertain. Maybe a little disgusted. She can't tell. She can't really read him.

"Wait, please. I'm sorry---yes, we can talk," he says, "I am---I was unprepared. That's all." And so was she.

He lets go almost as soon as she realizes he's touching her.

"Are you well?" he asks.

"I am," she says, but she is still thinking about the eluvian, about leaving as quickly as she can, "How have you been?" This is even worse. The awkward pauses, the tension. They should never be alone together. She wonders how they ever managed it before.

"I am well," he says. 

And the pause is terrible. It is long. It is painfully awkward.

"Good," she says. _Good._ But talking is too much for either of them. She can tell.

"Perhaps we should return to the main hall," he says, "This part of the library is unfinished. It isn't meant to be seen."

She feels silly for feeling so dismissed. Just a few words and he has had enough. Maybe she has no right to feel slighted, but she does. She stares at him. She blinks.

When he doesn't say anything else, she finally slips past him. She doesn't know why it stings. They have two hundred years between them now. It should mean nothing. But it does. He can't even speak to her properly. Maybe he never could. Maybe she only heard what she wanted to hear. 

She leaves him standing alone. Cole was wrong. She will not make the mistake of believing him again.

 

He sends a letter after. She opens it. She means to read, but she can't get past her name. She folds it up and slips it between the pages of a book.

Somehow, it works its way back to her desk. It finds its way to her pillow. To her kitchen table. It moves to wherever she doesn't want it to be. Cole's doing. Of course.

She reads the first line. She reads _I'm sorry_ and she can't continue.

"Stop meddling, Cole," she says. She can't see him, but somehow, she knows he's here. In the end, in a fit of irritation, she crumples the letter. 

She burns it.

She pretends she has no regrets. But her mind drifts back to that _I'm sorry_ and she wonders what else he meant to say. If Cole hadn't pushed, maybe it would still be tucked away, safe in her book. Maybe she would have read it.

She'll never know.

 

_250 years after the Fall_

Cole makes a pest of himself again. Or maybe he never stopped.

"You should go back," he says, "Try again."

Her house is small and tucked in the forest, just outside the city. It is filled with books and ugly chairs and it is peaceful except for now. There is only chaos when Cole tries to tear her away from it.

She has been to Arlathan. She has seen Solas for herself and she is satisfied that he has calmed, finally. He has changed. That is enough.

But Cole is not content. He is restless. He is pushy. He is irritating.

She almost misses the quiet boy he was before, the spirit content to help from the shadows. Falon'Din's power has turned him into something frustrating.

"No, Cole," she says, "Please stop asking."

"I can help you this time," he says.

He is being silly.

"You're the one who's silly," he says, "I was wrong before. I know that now, but things have changed."

It makes her bristle. For all her power and training, for all Merrill's attempts with blood magic, Cole always manages to get into her thoughts. He doesn't even have to try. 

"Cole," she says.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, "But I'm right."

"Stay out of my head," she says.

"If he comes here," he starts again.

"No," she says, "Meddling never ends well, Cole. We have moved on. Be content. There are other things you could be doing to help." The garden could use some attention. 

He makes a face.

"Neither of you have moved on," he says, "You're just pretending."

"And you're making me crazy," she says, "There is too much blood between us, Cole. Please, stop. It has been over two hundred years. We will never be what we were."

"You could be something better."

Rage. That is what she feels. She is going to throw him out if he doesn't stop talking. He slumps. He looks dejected.

"Alright," he says.

He sits. Finally. He lets the silence stretch peaceful between them. She passes the plate of Sera's cookies. She was here just yesterday, with Merrill and their new daughter, Kallian. Sera was happier than she's ever seen her and too full of mischief. She left irritating presents scattered in inconvenient places. Nothing like bees or lizards this time, but still. Honey should not be used in pranks. Ever.

Cole takes a cookie off the top of the pile. He has finally learned how to eat, how to enjoy it. He takes a bite. He doesn't smile.

 

_300 years after the Fall_

She is indifferent at first. Another team of emissaries comes to Hunter Fell. She thinks it is purely a diplomatic show meant to strengthen the ties between the two Peoples. But they bring architects and stone masons. They bring builders. They bring more of their special mages. They bring the proposal for a gift.

Most of the council is pleased.

She is not.

"They want to give us a library," Merrill says, "We aren't telling them no."

"As long as Solas doesn't violate the terms of the truce," Mahariel says, "I won't stab him in the face."

"Mahariel, please," Merrill says.

"Well I don't want to see him," he says, "Let his People build us a damn library. I don't care. He isn't allowed within the city limits."

"I'm sure the Dread Wolf doesn't need you to remind him of the terms," Velanna says.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Mahariel says.

Merrill leans on the table, her eyes flashing.

"Please, we're speaking of the library not the Dread Wolf," she says, "I think we should let them build. Our library, if you can really call it a library, is in a sad state. This is exactly what we want."

"But why do they want to?" Lavellan asks.

"It's a token of friendship. It's a library. We won't have to go to theirs," Velanna says, "If it was anything else I would be suspicious, perhaps. But we don't have anything they need. They have better resources." Mahariel snorts at "token of friendship" and so does Sera.

"They have better resources because Solas took everything," Lavellan says, "We're not seriously considering this?" She looks at Sera for help and then Mahariel and Fenris. 

But Sera is no help. She gives no shits about the library but Merrill does. And Merrill rates quite a bit higher in her esteem. For Mahariel as well. What Merrill wants, Merrill gets. Lavellan is already outvoted, even before they've begun.

And Fenris pretends he doesn't care as much as he does. He shares some of Mahariel's opinions, but as long as the terms of the truce are upheld, there is no real problem. She can tell, though, he is no more pleased about the intrusion than she or Sera is. 

"Hunter Fell needs a library," Merrill says. She insists. Velanna agrees.The rest of the council agrees. The only hold outs are Lavellan, Mahariel, and Fenris. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

And the council is right. This is for the People. This is what they want. Deep down, Lavellan has to admit she wants it too. She knows she does. She sighs. She relents. She thinks she should plan a vacation for the duration of the building. She hasn't been to New Denerim in a while. She would like to see the progress.

"Fine," she says, she doesn't try not to snap. She is annoyed.

She finds Cole sitting in her garden, staring at the dirt when she returns. Somehow, she wonders if the library is his doing. She thinks it might be. He looks disappointed. He looks frustrated again.

"You can't go," he says.

"I'll be back," she says, "It's just for a short visit."

He scowls because he knows what she means by a short visit. She plans to stay until construction is completed or travel until it is. She knows she's being silly. She wouldn't see Solas because he's not allowed in the city, but she doesn't want to watch his people build. She doesn't want to risk running in to Abelas again.

He can be just as troublesome as Cole when he gets his mind set on something. Two two of them have been trying to get her and Solas to meet for ages. They have been trying to get them to talk, to bury their quarrel. She has been unwilling since meeting him in the Vir Dirthara. Solas had a chance to talk to her and he threw it back in her face. No. She has had enough.

"He wasn't ready," Cole says, "But he is now."

"Well, I'm not," she says, "Get out of my head." She tells herself she doesn't care. She tries to believe it.

"Some things can't be fixed," she continues, no matter how much you want them to be.

She thinks of Dorian and Cassandra and she can't remember the sound of their voices. They keep changing, shifting, in her memory. They would be dead now if they'd lived, but it doesn't make it any easier. They still died before their time. They saw war instead of peace. Their last sights were of destruction. It was wrong. It was Solas' fault.

She doesn't want to speak to Solas, not now. She has finally healed. She has moved on---

"You haven't moved on," Cole says, "You haven't even tried."

"Please, come to the Vir Dirthara again," he says.

She says, "No." But there is a moment of hesitation. Cole sees it. She knows he's going to remember. But she doesn't care. She can't risk herself again. She has given Solas too many chances.

She goes to New Denerim to see the monument to the fallen. She goes to Orlais and she considers staying there. The library is not as nice as the Vir Dirthara, but it is lovely, all the same. And she thinks about Solas. She thinks about Cole. She wonders if people really can change for the better.

She is afraid to hope.

 

_350 years after the Fall_

When she returns to Hunter Fell, the new library is complete. It is white marble and veridium. The walls are polished to shimmering perfection and there are more books than she has seen together in a long time.

They have crafted elegant statues of heroes and friends. Solas has donated some of his paintings. Many. It is lovely.

But the painting that hangs in the main hall takes her aback. She has seen it before. When she first looks up, she is shocked to see her own face, to see that moment in Crestwood again. The night Solas first said goodbye. If he had told her the truth then, if he had tried, things might not have gone so terribly.

Maybe her friends would have lived. 

She is numb. She thinks it must mean something. He has sent this painting. He has sent this particular memory. It can't be a careless gesture. He rarely does anything without meaning. But she can't guess what that could be. Nothing good. It is not an apology.

She explores the library in silence, but there is little joy in it. Merrill is thrilled though. Sera can barely get her to leave. They argue in hushed tones until Sera leans in to whisper something in her ear. Merrill goes very red and very quiet and she finally lets her pull her away.

Well. Lavellan has seen that look before. She knows what it means. 

She doesn't see Mahariel or Zevran. They have gone to Antiva again, to their second home. They are unsure when they will be back, but she knows, it will probably be a while. There has been a rush of new settlers---they have had to mediate land disputes. They have had to intervene in a ridiculous number of ridiculous arguments. 

Antiva needs them. 

Hunter Fell is oddly calm.

The eluvian has been moved to the library. It connects to the Vir Dirthara. It is almost like the libraries are one instead of two. If she wanted, she could just step through. No one would be the wiser. 

She considers it. Maybe Cole is right. Maybe it is time to bury the past. To move on.

If Solas has changed, for real this time---

She touches the surface of the eluvian. It ripples. She shouldn't. This is foolish. 

She shouldn't.

She holds her breath. She steps through the eluvian. She doesn't know why. But she does.

 

The Vir Dirthara is already quiet but she thinks, somehow, it gets even quieter when she steps into the main hall. The patrons stare at her. They gape.

It almost makes her turn around and go right back through the eluvian. 

Abelas finds her first. His expression is wary but she thinks she sees something else, something almost hopeful. He greets her. He gives her something close to a smile.

But when he asks her if she needs help with anything, she doesn't know what to tell him. She doesn't even know why she's here. She doesn't know why she let Cole get under her skin.

The Vir Dirthara was beautiful before, and it is much the same, but it is more. It is so much more. 

She doesn't see Solas. She doesn't venture away from the main part of the library. Though she is tempted. There are delicate tomes further in, sequestered away from the main stacks. They have had to be preserved magically. They have had to be repaired.

Abelas explains. He doesn't disguise his pride. He has done much of the work himself. Restoring what was lost has given him new purpose.

She leaves after only an hour.

She feels like a coward.

Maybe now, Cole will stop pushing.

 

A letter comes for her. She sees her name on the envelope and she recognizes his flowing script. She thinks she can read this one. She thinks she should.

But she hesitates when she tears the corner. 

She stares at it for too long. 

He destroyed the world. He put her through far too much pain. Why would she risk opening herself up to more. She is going to blame Cole, but that isn't fair. He is pushing, yes, but she can always say no. She can always shut him down. 

No. This is her doing. She has stirred the hornet's nest. She has put herself out there.

When she finally drags the letter out of the envelope, she is struck by the state of it. It has been crumpled up and smoothed out again. It is badly wrinkled. The ink is smudged. 

_Dear Ellana,_ it reads, _I have been meaning to write to you for some time now, but I was unsure if such a letter would be welcome---_

But part of it is crossed out. Scratched out. Inked over. This is not something he meant to send. This is something stolen out of a trash bin. 

He has written _I'm sorry._ He has scribbled over it. He has tried to replace it with _I know nothing I can say will make up for the harm I have caused you. But know that I am sorry._

The ink has smeared. It is impossible to decipher. 

There are more I'm sorry's scribbled across the bottom. The flowing script devolves into chicken scratch. It is little better than Sera's hand writing. But still, she knows the hand that wrote it was Solas' hand.

She is going to have to have a talk with Cole. He is old enough to know why this is wrong. 

But Cole doesn't show himself when she calls for him. He doesn't answer her in the Fade.

Another letter comes the next day. It is in no better condition. Worse. This one has been torn and pieced back together. It apologizes again. It spells out his regrets. It lists them. 

And a third letter comes the day after that. It is almost legible. She could almost fool herself into believing Solas sent it himself. She thinks it would be wiser to burn it. He never meant for her to read this. Cole is violating his privacy.

But she is curious. 

She wants to know what he keeps writing, what he keeps refusing to send.

_Ellana,_

_I am sorry I missed your visit. I have wanted to speak to you for some time now, but I was afraid to approach you. Perhaps afraid isn't the right word. I was ashamed, I think. I do not deserve your forgiveness. I know that now._

_You are owed an apology. You are owed more. If I could---"_

The rest is blacked out.

He has drawn in the margins---butterflies and flowers. A dragon. Unfinished and misshapen. Pretty but oddly proportioned. 

"Cole, I know you're here," she says, "You have to stop stealing Solas' trash. He won't appreciate the effort."

He will be embarrassed.

She doesn't want to tell him.

"Cole," she says, "Answer me, please."

But he doesn't. She thinks he is too busy meddling again. There will be another letter. It will be uncomfortable to read. It will be worse.

But Solas is sorry. He might even have regret for the right things this time, not just for getting caught in a lie.

She burns the next letter Cole delivers. She burns the one after that. She burns the one after that. Solas will have to put the paper directly in her hands before she risks reading another stolen word.

 

She looks for Cole in the Fade. She finds Solas instead. He is sitting on a downed log in a pretty clearing. She sees ruined stone walls and trees, so many trees. 

For a moment, she is struck dumb. She can't talk, can't breathe, can't think, but when the shock melts away, she is annoyed. Somehow, she thinks Cole has orchestrated this.

He doesn't understand. He can't force people together. He can't change the past.

When Solas looks at her, he looks weary, resigned. He nods his head in greeting. She knows he is going to go. He will not force her to endure his presence.

But that is ridiculous because she is the intruder this time. She was looking for Cole. She is looking for Cole, and when she finds him, she is going to scream at him.

"I am sorry," Solas says, he sounds different. He looks different. She doesn't know what has changed, but something has. He is not as bright as he was the last time, perhaps. He is smaller somehow. He is more like he was before.

If that even makes sense.

"Don't be. I'm looking for Cole," she says, "Have you seen him?"

Solas frowns. He crosses his arms and settles back down and his gaze turns faraway.

"I am waiting for him," he says, "But he is...late."

Of course he is. He knows she is looking for him. He knew she would. Of course he would find a way to drag Solas into this. She knows she shouldn't tell him about the letters. That's Cole's responsibility. But she can't think of anything else to say. She doesn't know how to talk to him.

"Cole is meddling again," she says. Despite herself, she sits beside him. She keeps quite a bit of distance between them. 

"I suspected as much when I saw you," he says, a smile flickers on his face. He stares at the sky. He makes no move toward her.

She feels strange. To be here with him, talking like this, it is like another world. In a sense, it is. So much time has passed. The veil is gone. She is just a woman again, she isn't the Inquisitor. 

But he is the leader of the Elvhen people. He is the destroyer of worlds, too proud and too familiar.

She is ashamed to admit it, but she has missed him. 

"You should know," she says, because the silence unsettles her, "Cole has been digging in your trash."

Solas stiffens.

"What do you mean?" 

She regrets this conversation already.

"He has been sending me letters," she says, "From you. I'm sorry."

"I---don't know what to say," he says. He shuts his eyes for a moment. He looks worse than weary. She sees more than sadness.

She doesn't understand.

"I'm going to talk to him again," she says, "There is no excuse. He knows this is wrong."

He sighs. He is so very quiet.

"I am sorry he has troubled you," he says.

She doesn't like the look of him. She doesn't want to worry. She doesn't want to care. But she does. He is Solas. No matter what he's done, there is a part of her that nags. It wants him to smile. And another part is worried because he is the most powerful mage in the world. He is the most dangerous. If he breaks again, if he loses himself, the world will suffer. The world has only just started to mend.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

He stares at the clouds. He thinks.

"So many things," he says, "The weight of my actions has grown heavy as of late. I regret much."

She holds her breath. This is like a dream. She thinks it's going to go badly.

"The way I behaved toward you, the things I did after you defeated Corypheus, the way I---the way I treated you," he says, "It seems I can think of little else."

"I hurt too many people. I killed so many people," he says.

"You were right," he says, "All this time."

She can't speak. She can't do anything.

"I was a fool," he says.

"Three hundred, almost four hundred years, Solas," she says, and she tries to keep her voice steady, tries and fail because she doesn't know what he's playing at, "That's how long I've wanted you to say it. Why now? What has changed?"

Because this is too good to be true. She won't believe he means it. She can't until---until---she doesn't know what needs to happen first. He could have fooled Cole somehow. He could be tricking her again. he was always so good at it.

What is he doing? What is he playing at?

He shakes his head. She sees that look again. That heavy sadness. It is hard to fake such a thing.

She wonders.

"When I first awoke, I was shocked by the state of the world. When I destroyed the veil, when I failed again, the last of my hope died. I had nothing left. I had destroyed everything. Again. But you were still here. I told myself---I convinced myself----you were all I had left. I could save you, if nothing and no one else, I could do that much. But I hurt you. I did it over and over again and no matter how you tried to make me understand, I refused to accept it. I wouldn't hear you. I had destroyed everything else. I needed to save you. I nearly destroyed you," he says.

"Time has showed me the truth," he continues, "I stood in the Fade and I watched myself. I watched what I had done. I understand now."

"You were right," he says.

When she looks at him with the Sight, she sees what is different. Elgar'nan's power isn't thrumming through him. There is only the silver threads that belonged to June. There is nothing else. 

"What have you done?" she asks.

She doesn't want to hope. She doesn't want to let herself think there's a chance. And she needs him to say it. She does.

"I never wanted to be a god," he says.

"If this is some kind of a game," she says, her voice breaks. She clenches her hands into fists to hide their shaking. She fights to stay calm. 

"I am too old for games," he says, "And I am sorry. There is nothing I can do to atone for what I've done."

He falls silent. He waits and she struggles to put her thoughts together, to be coherent. She is glad he understands because she certainly doesn't. He can't truly expect her to believe all he needed was time. It can't be that simple.

"I don't know what to say," she says. But she knows what she will say to Cole and how loud she will shout it. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, and he sounds worse. He hears the anger in her voice and he seems to shrink. He deflates. It makes her angrier. It makes her feel like a villain again and she has every right to this anger.

She is not a villain.

She doesn't stay any longer. She goes. She wakes.

 

She sees Solas in the Fade again. Several times over the next few years, always when she's looking for Cole. Always when she's furious about something. It gets easier. She is able to talk to him without snapping. 

The worst of her anger dulls. 

She is reminded again how much she misses their talks. It is funny, she thinks. Centuries have passed and she still misses just listening to the sound of his voice.

Cole stops stealing Solas' letters and delivering them to her door. He stops needling her to go to the Vir Dirthara. But he doesn't stop meddling. He finds other ways, new ways. And when reconciling with Solas fails, he tries other things.

It is odd even for him. He sends people he thinks she'd like. He tricks her several times into meeting with a stranger on what suspiciously looks like some kind of date. She does not appreciate the effort. 

Maybe she is better when she's alone. 

 

_400 years after the Fall_

When Kallian moves to Arlathan to study, Sera has a meltdown. It takes the combined efforts of Merrill, Lavellan, and Dalish to talk her down from it. She makes an ass of herself.

Kallian leaves, furious. She pours honey in Sera's shoes for revenge and Sera doesn't notice until it's too late. But it breaks the tension. She laughs when the stuff oozes over the top. In a rare display, she cries and Merrill holds her until the worst of it subsides.

It has been four hundred years, but the thought of Kallian living in one of Solas' cities is too much. 

Kallian is not the only one moving to Arlathan. Most of the young ones do. It is seen as a hub of enlightenment. It is too beautiful, too magical. Hunter Fell has lost many of the younger citizens to it. They live in Arlathan, they study, they come through the eluvian for holidays. 

And Velanna teaches a class there. Velanna. 

The town is much quieter now. It is much smaller.

Cole spends much of his time there too. If Lavellan wants to see him, he makes her come there. He makes her seek him out.

He doesn't push her to visit Solas, but she wonders. More than once, he is curiously absent when he's supposed to be meeting her. More than once she runs into Solas instead. It is never as awkward as she thinks it should be, but each time is difficult. Each time reminds of things she doesn't want to remember.

He is better. He is happier. He wears less despair in his face than he did. 

She is glad.

He wants to send emissaries to Kal-Sharok.

It catches her off guard. She stops. Kal-Sharok has not welcomed visitors since her people returned the titan's seed. She doubts they will welcome Solas. No. She knows they will not. He fought his way through their guards, their gate. He killed some of them. The titan will remember.

"Is that wise?" she asks.

He hesitates. 

"I was hoping to send Abelas with a proposal to your council," he says, "It is unlikely they would welcome anyone from Arlathan, but they might welcome someone from Hunter Fell."

That makes more sense, but she doubts it will be successful. Unless they have something to trade, she doesn't know what they could do to interest the dwarves. The Elvhen people have caused much damage to their world.

"It is something to consider," she says.

"I believe it is time to offer reparations," he says, "If they will accept."

She stares at him. She is surprised because she doesn't want to be on her way. She wants to continue this discussion. The world is not the same without the dwarves. It is duller somehow. 

"What do you think?" he asks.

What _does_ she think? What does she want to do?

"I think," she says, "I think I would like to discuss this further. Are you free?" And she is as surprised as he is. No. She is more surprised. She didn't mean to say that. She shouldn't. It is likely he hasn't told her the real truth behind this expedition.

It is likely and yet...and yet.

What is she doing?

This feels strange. 

"I---am. Are you sure?" he asks.

She is. She nods. This is manageable. It is low risk. They can sit down somewhere in public. They can eat. They can leave if it gets uncomfortable.

But he is uncomfortable now. He looks flustered. He looks a little green. He looks---he looks---

"We can get something to eat," she says. What is she doing? What is she even doing? No. They can't get something to eat. She can't sit down and discuss this because it is a terrible idea. It is wrong---

"I think---yes," he says, "That will be fine."

No, she thinks, it won't be. This is how it starts. This is always how it starts.

 

He knocks over his glass of water. Twice. He drops his fork. He spills half of his pasta. Somehow.

He is as red as a man can get.

"I apologize," he says, "I don't know what is wrong with me."

The conversation has stalled. He can't seem to remember the important detail, what he wants for the expedition to Kal-Sharok. He stares at her plate. He stares at the crusty, flaky bread. He stares at the table cloth, anywhere but at her. 

He is nervous.

He is terrified.

_She_ is terrified.

This is only lunch. They are only discussing work. There is nothing more to it. She knows. She does. 

Maybe.

"I wouldn't---don't," she tries, "There's nothing to apologize for."

She feels stupid. She wonders if Cole is nearby. She wonders if he was whispering encouragement in both their ears. Maybe that's how this happened.

But it couldn't be. Merrill's spell protects her from coercion. Cole couldn't have forced this. There is no way. Any mistake she makes is her own.

"The---the dwarves were receptive to meeting when we offered to return the seed," she says, "I think if you have any ancient dwarven artifacts---something noteworthy---it would help to offer them. It might get us in the gate."

"Of course, yes," he says, "Yes. The thought occurred to me. I have a few items I'm considering."

"Send them all?" she suggests.

She knocks over her own glass of water when he fidgets. He stares for at her. He meets her gaze, finally, and he is quiet.

But then, he laughs. And so does she.

"We are being ridiculous," she says. 

"We are," he agrees.

They relax. They start again. It goes...well. It makes the strangeness worse. They should not get along. It shouldn't be possible at this point. She doesn't want to admit it. She doesn't want to accept it. She misses him.

She does.

This is how it starts, she thinks. She is going to wring Cole's neck just a little. He is an ass.

 

_405 years after the Fall_

Lavellan can't sleep. She tries. She fails, mostly---she manages two hours, maybe three. And then she's awake again, staring at the ceiling.

Sera hasn't talked to her in six months. She won't look at her. She is too angry even for pranks. And this is Sera. Pranks are her lifeblood.

Merrill thinks it will blow over, but Lavellan isn't sure. It hurts, but she can't blame her. She understands. After everything they've been through, it must seem like a betrayal---it is like a betrayal.

Lavellan feels like a terrible friend.

And Fenris is worse than Sera. He is livid. He visits her three times just to tell her this. He calls her a fool. He calls her worse.

Cole says she shouldn't worry. It will be alright, but what does he know? Cole is a meddling meddler who meddles.

She is a terrible person.

She is.

She opens her eyes when she feels the kiss. Soft lips touch her face. An arm settles around her waist, pulling her closer, almost too close to be comfortable. He nuzzles her cheek, his breath hot against her skin. He nips her ear. He makes her shiver.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says, "More of the same." Sera. Fenris. Everything. She wants to fix it all but she doesn't know how. She doesn't think she can. 

"Go back to sleep," he says, his eyes still closed, "It's far too early, vhenan."

He kisses her jaw. He kisses her shoulder. He sighs and settles down again. It feels so good she can almost forget how bad things are right now. She can almost forget the fighting. Almost.

"Too. Early," he repeats.

"I know," she says. She sighs. She turns in his arms. She lays on her side, facing him.

He opens his eyes when he feels her move. The peaceful, sleepy look fades. His forehead furrows. He frowns, concerned.

"If there is anything I can do to help, tell me," he says. 

But he can't help with Sera and Fenris. They have a right to their anger. They have a right to hate her. After everything they've been through, after all the fighting, the war, she doesn't know how they could look at her and not be upset about this.

She tries to smile. She thinks she falls a little short.

"Kiss me again, Solas," she says. 

And he does.


End file.
